Brother's Opium War
by WhiteGloves
Summary: When Mycroft was caught in a very dangerous web of drug traffickers, Sherlock knew he'd see his dead body soon. But when bodies pile up and Mycroft calls, it was up to the consulting detective to keep his brother breathing but with consequences. Especially when the notorious drug syndicate does not plan to leave it's captive or anyone alive. /crimefic/ brothermines
1. The Den

***Brother's Opium War***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 _Just when I thought I'm done with one... here we go again... ;)_

 **Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

 **One: The Den**

* * *

He was a picture of an inebriated man, walking in the streets of London an hour after midnight. His clothes were uncommon for him for although a banker's suit it was, it was untidy and characteristically unbuttoned in the middle with a touch on his loose tie as part of the deception. He could never pass for a common Londoner walking into his vice if he were to appear otherwise. He felt an impulse to scratch on his made whiskers but decided against it, his mind quite cynic to any act that could give him away. At this late hour, this corner of London hidden from the bright center that was Big Ben, was filled with if not drunken men and women then those whose mind were lost in another world. This very corner was where he was intruding himself to despite its dark atmosphere and certainly quite _daunting_ air _._ He feigned a stagger and leaned his right shoulder on the available wall, even affected with a loud belch as two men passed by so that they leave him alone. He did not bother commending himself on his effective improvisation for this was no fun whatsoever. His younger brother was the queen of the drama, not he. He does not bother with little things that put short term thrills in the heart, which he also admits to lack. He much rather be found sitting in the comfort of his office than lurk about, in saggy clothes pretending to be nauseous. Hardly any of this was his initiative, if it weren't a very important request from a very important _'friend'._

He remembered this to happen just a night ago, when he was about to retire from his office in the Whitehall, when a knock on the door made him turn from his table, and found his old friend Harry standing by the doorway with a serious expression on his face.

"Mycroft." He called drily as he closed the door behind him quite meaningfully and even locked it.

Mycroft looked down on the papers in his hands, shifted them in alignment, and then locked it away in his drawer. He then put all other folders away, pressed the button under his table to deactivate the voice recorders and CCTV around, before sitting down on his chair once again, clasping both hands together and critically eyeing the Royal Representative, who happened to be a close acquaintance with their job tied closely to the royal family.

That the man came posthaste in his office even though Harry was usually of calm demeanor, was apparent on the flipped collar he must have failed to notice. That it was urgent and needed his immediate advice was obvious with the mobile phone still clutched on the representative's hand as if it was already part of the limb and forgotten. That it needed immediate attention and privacy was then the act of locking the door. And that it was a mishap about a royal family member, well, Mycroft only need to look at the man's credentials and his face to deduce all the background he needed.

"Tell me." He said shortly when Harry was seated perfectly still on the chair opposite his desk.

Thus, the story was related about a young _man_ who had gone missing for two days now from a certain exclusive boarding school in London. Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed at the inefficiency of the security and made a mental note to check the unit with a short phone call. Harry then said there was no ransom that called in, Mycroft agreed, or he would have been notified the second it happened. The close friends of the young man were then questioned and they all gave a certain location in West London that was new to their ears.

"It's a drug den." Mycroft said after Harry mentioned the particular spot. The Royal Representative looked up hopeful.

"Then you know of it? Of course, you do." His tone was just enough for Mycroft to understand of its underlying meaning. He did not mean to, but it was just there—the way he straightened his back, his shoulders squaring, the way his face turned livid with both eyebrows reaching heaven and the way his lips curled, not to mention the daggers in his gray eyes that was meant to cut—his intimidating air that did not escape the sensitive man's notice. "I apologize, Mycroft, I did not mean to offend—"

"I can give you a number of suggestions, but it seems clear you already have one in mind." He said curtly as he leaned back on his chair, the early revolt disappearing as easy as it came, "Pray tell, what it is you have conceived?"

Harry was not one to play with words either.

"Your brother." When Mycroft did not say anything, he pressed on, "This kind of case is not new to him, you can even admit to it, Mycroft. I have confirmed with the Earl himself—of his son's tendency to fall in this abhorrent activity and decided to make arrangements before it goes out of hands. They will be sending him to a rehabilitation center once retrieved."

"I have hopes for him." The British Government Head transfixed his eyes at the man knowing full well that the 'retrieval' was of import, "But I am afraid my brother is going to be a better accomplice than a redeemer if I send him in. I assure you he will not take the case if it was a mere boy missing, but add the magic word and he'll be one step ahead. The next thing you know we'll need to send more people to carry two disabled bodies. And there goes one profession. No, I am sorry, Harry, I don't believe it is to my brother's advantage to be sent in a house full of catnips."

Harry looked down the floor in despair, sighing heavily, and the British Government Head could just see the images flashing in his mind and he did not envy his position. Them people of the government have their own plates to mind into—except in every case, Mycroft knew he was not allowed to have any plates full. He must be the one to finish first and attend to another. This was being the British Government Head and therefore like this one, knew what must be done even before Harry met his eyes again.

"Then what do we do? This is a sensitive topic, even for a common family. We cannot leave this to any agent, Mycroft. We cannot put our faith in the hands of people we can hardly trust."

"I know."

"The scandal it would make. All the paper works!"

 _"Oh, I know."_

"We cannot let this happen, Mycroft! We need to send someone in!"

Mycroft closed his eyes and pressed his hand on his forehead before letting out an inaudible sigh.

It was a good thing that he was not averse to the idea of legwork as much as he claimed to be except he was not any younger. It was many years ago when he perfected his supreme acting, his art of disguise and his art of blending in that only his brother would be able to identify him. Set to the task after a long workout, he mingled in the society for good many hours appearing as a bank manager with dark bushy hair and eyebrows. Harry said his absence in the government would not be noticed to which Mycroft replied that only a terrorist attack could tell. He stayed in many and different local bars as the night progressed, taking a few swigs and letting the dank air of alcohol and cigarette color his attire. He then stayed outside when midnight struck its cue, _smoking_ quietly in a corner before moving in the street he was described to locate.

That was where he found himself staggering towards an alley with steep steps leading down to a black gap leading to another flight of steps. Then when he was deep within the cover of the shadows with only dim lamp lighting his eyes, he saw what appeared to be an entrance to a hidden valley squeezed between two buildings. Mycroft brushed shoulders with shorter men who came out of the wooden door, till he was stopped just before the entrance of a man as tall as he, wearing a thick bundle of scarf around his neck, his eyes dark and threatening.

"Mountain skiing?" he asked hoarsely.

"Picking poppy on the way." Mycroft said dismissively for code words were nothing to him and stepped into the low ceiling room with an odor of opium smoke, lit by single lamp on each corner, and a mass of bodies lying on the floor, breathing yes, alive? Debatable. It was a long way, going further back, with openings on the sides every step of the way where smaller rooms were divided by mere blankets and where more bodies were most likely to be hidden with all consent. Mycroft stopped inhaling the fumes and moved about quietly, not meeting eyes. In the gloom, he could see outlines with different positions— heads bobbing left and right or thrown back, shoulders askew, knees bent, legs everywhere with eyes deep, glassy and hard set within the influence. Mycroft knew for he had seen it up close. It was never a pleasant memory.

He refrained from covering his nose, afraid he might have caught attention, as strong body odor mixed with the smell of the already poisoned atmosphere. He coughed twice and held it in, his eyes watering at the effort but he had not seen yet the worst of it. At the end of the path hung a thick dirty blanket that was half raised. Mycroft ventured towards it, passing by frames of people immovable from the floor. With a quick eye behind him, he reached into the asylum's curtain and half dragged himself in effort for what he saw— bunks of bed everywhere and several—dozens—of twitching forms lying on each of it. Another strong smell hit his nostrils—of urine and other apocalyptic stench—that nearly made him double back to the doorway if not for the sudden arms that flung itself on his shoulders—

A man half naked was upon him, his long, greasy hair covering his eyes, his dirty face too close for Mycroft's liking—

"Get off!" he muttered with much discipline he could muster as he threw the man away from his body, his already much tried attire absorbing the man's pong. Mycroft was not callous, however, as he made sure the man dropped on an occupied bed. He waited, but the long-haired man didn't seem to notice he was ejected as he laid limply on the bed. Mycroft stared down the body with curt eyebrows, then raised his eyes and wondered if he caught any attention. When none came, Mycroft decided to continue inside the room anyways.

It was a poor sight, what he saw. Not only adults but young men were scattered on each bed, arms and other limbs about with a great number of metal paraphernalia, syringes and waxes beside them; clearly in each fantasy, their eyes could hardly be identified as living. He had no inclination for pity on their behalf, he never pitied Sherlock before, it was closer to being incensed and spiteful of what he had become. Still, he could never leave him alone. It had always been mechanical of him to look after his brother for the sole reason the he was the older brother. If there was any other force within him that drives him to always look after Sherlock, he'd really like to have a word with it. One could only tolerate so much at a time.

Something caught Mycroft's attention when at last he was at the last bunk of empty beds. The vapor of opium was still thick, and he still gagged when a slink of air entered in his handkerchief he had now pressed on his nose. He saw a small door at the corner of the last bed and from there he knew he saw a man standing watching him then was gone. Making up his mind if he should follow for he knew an invitation when he saw one with only his safety at a question, the British Government Head reminded himself of his true purpose in the den.

But what if the young man was there?

Mycroft was about to take his first step when a strong arm wrapped itself tightly on his shoulder, holding him close. Mycroft instinctively tried to pull away as he recognized the stench of the half-naked man who assaulted him when he first came in—only the man pulled him with such strength for a thin man, then its mouth almost by Mycroft's ear who gritted his teeth as he heard that familiar voice—

 _"Fancy meeting you here, brother dear."_

Mycroft struggled and pulled off from his younger brother's clutches, eyeing him in a devilish way as he took in his new appearance. It was distasteful, and Mycroft spent the next seconds lacing his acid thoughts into words on his brother who grinned more and more as he swept his long hair out of his eyes.

"You recognized me?" he asked in a low voice which only made Mycroft look at him sternly.

"I could recognize you from ten feet away whatever monstrosity you appear to be. Do I have to make arrangements for you with my tailor?" He made a face at his brother's nakedness and wrinkled his nose. "I knew you've been following me since I came. There's always a chance of meeting you in a place like this, how could I not keep an eye on such possibility?"

"Why didn't you signal when you noticed?"

"Why should I? You don't see me waving when you pass by the Whitehall."

"You're such a bore, Mycroft." Sherlock sighed with a look around.

"And you predictable." There was every sharp edge on his voice, " _You promised not to come to places like this anymore"!_

"I'm undercover." He pointed out.

"And I'm a ballerina."

Sherlock raised both eyebrows, bemused.

The smoke thickened in Mycroft's opinion which made his throat itch, his eyes to water even more. He looked at his younger brother and saw that he was smirking. Clearing his throat, he shook his head and began paving his way towards the exit, Sherlock he knew, bringing up the rear.

When they came out of the curtained blanket, Mycroft heard Sherlock's low voice who was still following his every step directed to another path in the endless dark maze.

"I take it you're not here to tow me back to civilization?"

"No." was his curt reply.

"Then who're you here for?"

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh that only hurt his nose and lungs. He thought he noted a different tone in his brother's voice but dismissed it—for one, he was in a hurry to even be trifled with a _Sherlock_ at the moment.

"If you can't answer that on your own, you best leave me alone and continue your… endeavors." He glanced slightly at his younger brother with an eyebrow up, then went on his way to another direction he had not taken without another word.

Sherlock persisted behind him as Mycroft knew he would.

"Ahh, being too mysterious, are we?"

"No, you're just not using your head." Mycroft scoffed, sarcasm at its highest, "I didn't think you could still surprise me, brothermine. Poor brain, you ought to donate it, it could still make a difference in the world."

Sherlock uttered such an offending curse that made Mycroft stumble down the floor. He glared back at the man who feigned the attention and went on:

"This is no place for someone like you," Sherlock deduced away, while Mycroft continued searching high and low, "but you're here anyway and the only occasion you would be is because of me; now since you're not looking for me which is a first, it means the only other reason you'd be on your feet, showing prowess in using your feet and mingling with this kind of crowd is when the ever-vulnerable crown is at stake."

"Slow, aren't we?" Mycroft ducked down to another passage leading to a room with nothing but fumes. He came out of the room coughing aloud and clutching his throat. When the spasm passed, he looked his brother straight in the eye, "Now that you've identified the obvious, would you mind moving away? My purpose here is to be incognito and I can't do it with you tailing me around. Go home, will you?" he interjected, remembering Sherlock shouldn't be here after all.

"Fine." Sherlock said with a shrug as he turned his heels and marched away, "I suppose I'll get ahead of you to where the Grosvenor is."

Mycroft's eyes widened as he straightened his back and called after his younger brother. It would seem Sherlock had deduced accurately after all, although he did admit he knew every present character in the den, especially those that hold titles. Mycroft didn't need to inquire for what purpose since the answer was obvious— _it was his brother's job to know other people's business._ Within five minutes the Holmes brothers located the young man who had passed out on an isolated room divided in blankets. Mycroft checked his pulse which was low and his eyes which couldn't be seen properly because it was dark and tried to rouse the man.

"Obviously not responding." The older Holmes clenched his teeth, recognizing the symptoms.

"That's bad." Sherlock echoed behind him. "He's not sensible enough to make a list."

"He does not have anyone to remind him. Now, get him out of here." Mycroft instructed as he wrapped the young man in his coat that was left on the floor. He picked up the man's boots and put it on his feet, tied his collar and buttoned his uniform.

"Why _me_?"

"Because you're stronger and faster. I'll go distract." He pointed at a silhouette drawing near the blanket and it was obvious he was not overdosed with his straight steps. Mycroft wondered if it was about time to buy a sample he was never meant to use. He pulled on some covers for the limp man.

"The only distracting you can ever do is step on someone or get stepped on." Sherlock earned a glowering look and remembered he had done so already.

"I'll take my chances not to be stampede." Mycroft half carried the unconscious fellow and push him on Sherlock's arms who cursed and caught the man by the waist. The older Holmes went on, "Two black cars are waiting by the exit, get him inside one and get on the other. I'll be there."

"Don't take anything here." Sherlock warned as Mycroft moved towards the entrance to speak to the shadow now just outside the blanket. "Evidence or not, these people are very particular with their items."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Who do you think rescued you from different drug dens for many years?"

"Doesn't make you an expert about it."

"You really think I'll let you stay here for another second?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "You said I wasn't your target."

"You happened to be added now move it. I know my way about situations like this, Sherlock. Now if you could please look after him, I'll be very grateful."

"Why do you bother with other people's trouble?" Sherlock heaved the man and stood straight, "You're worse than John."

Mycroft halted by the entrance and looked back. "Why, thank you."

* * *

Sherlock pushed his load into the black car he saw and was helped by another man in black suit. After securing the door closed, the first car drove away in all haste, leaving Sherlock, in his naked form, standing by the street when another black car glided in front of him. Snorting at the idea of driving back with his brother, Sherlock looked back at the exit way where he expected Mycroft to emerge from. He didn't exactly know the detail of his older brother's adventure, but it was amusing to see him there, a picture of a great actor in appropriate character. Except Mycroft's eyes that remained sharp and cutting like knife. Nobody would ever believe he belonged there. Mycroft could never get his eyes to look the way other people did—lost and unseeing.

Smoking briefly, Sherlock was spared the idea to return in the den when he saw his older brother come out of the exit, coughing. Throwing down the cigarette stub, the consulting detective took his favourite coat he kept by on a corner and put it on, then without waiting for his brother to approach, he crossed the dark street and blended into the night.

Mycroft saw his brother disappear and sighed. He was just forming new words to describe how filthy, irresponsible and unhygienic he was this time when a hand shot out of nowhere, covered half his face with a very dirty cloth soaked in what he realized as chloroform—and Mycroft reluctantly slipped into the arms of Morpheus.

* * *

 ***ToBeContinued***

 _I told myself to take it easy... and enjoy some brotherly feels!_

 _Not so complicated as the others, I hope! But full throttle still!_

 **Thanks for reading! ^_^**

 **~W.G~**


	2. The Sixth

***Brother's Opium War***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 _Some coarse language here and there... blood? Not quite *o*_

 **Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

 **Two: The Sixth**

* * *

He has never been a _dull_ person, thank you very much, particularly not in dire moments when the vigilance of his mind was warranted, his wits at test to never allow his emotion to cloud his judgement. Be it surprise or distress, he does not have the leisure to even _think it,_ how good it was to be smart.

It was a leverage to safety that much was given.

So, when he found himself facing sideways on the floor after what seemed to be an apparent intentional assault, his head pounding terribly like something was continuously hammering inside it—no doubt an effect of the sedative forcibly clamped over his face, but this wasn't his first time—he knew he was in a situation. The memory of his capture came flooding his memory as soon as he opened his eyes, aware that there were people behind him. His arms were not bound—the fact that he was not restrained on a chair suggested many possibilities of his captors' psyche and how he could weave himself out of it. The first rule of being captured, as he would usually tell Sherlock because he was most prone of it, was try not to get disoriented which is what the hijackers want. Again, to Mycroft, it was all too easy for then he was everything but disoriented. Second was to assess situation. Done that. He was still in the drug den judging by the same fumes of toxic in the air, and the dreary blanketed wall he was now facing that had the same effects he observed when he came in. He probably appeared very suspicious after all, hence the attack; but he was not tied in any way which means his captors were still deciding if he was an enemy, agent or a typical _user_ in need of a fix. _Obviously, they did not find anything on him save what he wanted them to see—_ a fake identity as a bank accountant, a photo of fake family, even a dog and most importantly a wallet full of cash.

He was in character, who would be suspicious?

With this at his disposal, he pretended a grunt and give a painful groan, scratching his back and casually drawling out the name of his fake wife ordering her to leave the house once and for all. That should be easy to play out since it was what he meant to be from the beginning. _He did love acting long ago. Lady Augusta Bracknell_ was his masterpiece.

"You sure he's not a snitch?" came a brusque tone from behind him.

"He's got a wade of cash and his receipts' all liquors on different bars. You think he is?" replied a younger voice skeptically. "Why'd you _snatch_ 'im?"

"He's been poking around the wrong places." Came a dry reply, "and he's not someone I've seen around."

"His I.D says he's from Ludgate, Commonwealth Bank. Not far from Westfield, is it?"

"Yeah, but we can't take chances now. Not tonight when things are coming _._ If coppers got wind of this, we're gonna lose some serious millions."

"Oi," Mycroft's voice was barely recognizable from his own, his eyes losing their sharpness as he narrowed his gaze at the men, "Where's my pack? How many've I got left?". For an effect, he dropped his head sideways and gave another grunt.

"He thinks he's already taken some," said the younger one. "I should carry him out now, bring him to a bed and make him think everything's in his head, eh? It's almost time."

Feet came scuttling on the ground and Mycroft felt someone grab him under the arm and helped him up.

"Quickly, the boss' gonna be here any minute."

"You're the one who brought him here!"

Mycroft gave some considerations, before he let his legs giveaway so his whole weight dropped on the ground without warning, making the man groan at the sudden movement, till Mycroft was, once again, lying on the ground on his side. _What was this about a 'boss'?_ Curiosity simply burned in him. He heard the two men argue more till there was a brief pause and then Mycroft heard new footsteps from the outside coming in and another voice joined the room.

"Why aren't you waiting at the backdoor? Plaza's car s'been waitin there you idiots."

"There's this—"

"Shut it, you want the whole operation to get busted? Have you the locations?"

"Got it just now." Said the brusque man behind Mycroft who did not move a muscle, his back on the men with eyes open and shrewd. "We got the final safe routes—NK59-02Z, NWAT-0ZT, NKLW-B3D, NKLO-BSX and NWAK-BS8."

Mycroft would have advised Sherlock to do the first and foremost instinct that any captives will have in mind— _escape._ It is most critical, especially on the first moments of abduction. He has already established the safest way out by now—to pretend to be a user. Only a few more steps and he would have been hauled outside, into the dirty bunkers, pretending to sink in the hazy dream of cocaine. Then he would slip away into freedom. That would have been the best approach. If only the conversation did not make so much sense to him like reading bylaws of the country; unfortunately, it did, and it was making hairs at the back of his neck stand on end out of excitement.

Why? Because his captors just uttered a word— a magic word that was enough to raise six security alerts in the country! This name was even enough to have CIA calling in to join force for a possible capture and finally, if not to put an end, then at least behead one of the heads of a notorious drug syndicate in the world! The magic word _Plaza,_ otherwise known in MI6 as _El Pla Za—one of the most prominent leaders of the infamous Los Zetas syndicate from Mexico with drug cartels all over the world—_ with his moniker as "Z-06" indicating his number for signing up in the group as the _sixth_. Mycroft felt much awake despite the gloom in the atmosphere and preferred to lay still, listening. That this man was in London without his knowledge was a tint in his reputation. Drugs had always been major problem in England, and though there may have been plenty of raids and busts and even successful captures, if the main head remained intact it was all for naught. For El Pla Za to be roaming the streets of the very city he was in charge with was something Mycroft Holmes can never allow. Let alone, _let him escape at._

 _Oh yes, the war is on!_

And the fact that he had always loathed cocaine and other substances ever since… well… _that day._

He heard them talk more, all the while his brain had found his answers. The letters and numbers that were mentioned were familiar to him. They were coordinates yes, but if one was not knowledgeable of such system, they would fail to identify the precise locations. Now, common coordinates appear in latitude and longitude say London, England that can be found exactly at 51.5074° N, 0.1278°W. The mentioned routes however were the converted form in what they call as Makaney Code— an alphanumeric representation of geographic coordinates that follows a certain formula. One had to check the internet for that; he was sure Sherlock would have done so for he has little memory to spare such information. _But not him._ The moment the codes were given, Mycroft's mind was already picturing the places as he last remembered them to be in order: _Angel Walk in Hammersmith, Beresford building in White City, Victoria's Museum in Kensington, Hilton Hotel in Westminster and Empire Casino in London._

How Sherlock survives without his smartphone, he could only guess.

Now how to send it to his people? If Mycroft had thought that things could go awry during his operation, he knew he'd never let himself down when it comes to alternate plans. Naturally he believed that when he was the one acting, less disappointing end would happen. Then he calculated Sherlock's involvement and therefore had to make the plans anyway. First was his own tracker untraceable in his body because it was attached to the center of his right palm. It was covered with an artificial skin, so nothing would be found in the instant he was searched. They never did find it. To his credit also, said tracker was modified to _send_ messages in the form of the ever-handy _Morse Code._ Somebody suggested let it be a speaker or a microphone. The British Government Head disapproved for how _obvious_ can you be when you whisper or received cracking sound waves during an interrogation?

So, Mycroft began pressing his middle finger on his palm, feeling the nano gadget pressing back.

There was a second silence broken by the new comer's voice.

"What's that?"

"Just another thick we nabbed. Big D here thought he's a snitch. Turned out he's just a banker."

Mycroft had just finished his last messaged when he heard footsteps come near—then he was grabbed by the arm and pulled back into a lying position, his face facing the lamp light. He pretended to be half asleep, his head falling on his right shoulder, doing a great imitation of the bodies he saw earlier outside.

To his great dismay, however, the new comer with big calloused hands—thicker than that of a mason and smelled strongly of all the cocaine and other drugs altogether except that dominant smell of old holborn tobacco mixed with alcohol and sea water— suddenly pressed his rough hand on Mycroft's face directly to his eyes, forcing them open to peer in the older Holmes thought his eyeball would fall out— _and he knew the game was up._

"You fucking idiots, have you never seen anyone _high?_ This man's got no touch of drug in his system! _Who the fuck is this?"_

* * *

Early that morning, Sherlock literally blasted his door open from his bed room into the kitchen, carrying test tubes on both hands with such speed his actions were blurred from sight. John Watson, who was seated on his favorite chair in the living room, didn't have to look at his flat mate as he too was busy typing in his computer to know of his best friend's horrid activities. All he heard behind him were the clinking of the beakers and test tubes, the sound or simmering water, the flame of the Bunsen burner and the forgotten water continuously streaming in the sink. John had better experience of the busybody consulting detective to even give the slightest attention.

Except—

"Should be enough with Hydrogen sulphide (H2S), methyl methanethiol… nitrogen, hydrogen…"

"I swear if you set the kitchen table on fire again…" the doctor muttered under his breath with a click of 'save' on his document, aware that some of the substances were _flammable._

"If I had wanted safety to be my priority every time I conduct experiments, John, I would be typing on the computer just like you. Likewise, if I think removing safety out of the equation makes any difference in my efforts and find there's no difference whatsoever then _whatever that activity is, it's probably a waste of time."_

It was followed by a considerable loud blobbing sound which made the doctor shake his head.

"Exactly what are you doing then?" he could not bear it anymore and had to look behind him to find Sherlock on his feet, wearing goggles and whitegloves and preparing to mix two liquids in test tubes, one colorless and the other a rich color of tangerine, in a beaker on the table. "Sherlock?"

"Something interesting that would keep Mrs. Hudson at bay for many hours." He poured, and an instant reaction popped in the air like an atomic bomb—John smelled it even before his brain registered it and was on his feet flying towards the window for an escape with expression an unpaintable horror—

 _"God, Jesus Christ!"_ and he swore aloud with eyes tightly shut, catching a spasm of cough lurching from his stomach that threatened to break his lungs. He even opted to jump as his instinct's advice. The odor was repugnant and could clench the stomach, even make one pass out for its potent smell like a combination of rotten garbage, dead fish and black canals. The room was filled its colorless haze and if John wasn't busy trying to get a hold of himself, he would have smacked his flat mate out cold.

Sherlock waltz in the maze of chairs and tables and opened the other window happily.

"Nothing beats fresh air, even in dreary London."

"What the hell was that!"

"A potential weapon to eliminate obstacles and impositions of neighbors, even landladies in the form of the most useful science in the world— _chemistry_. Why, if we can have this release at any chosen time we'll be saved the trouble of always entertaining unwanted visitors, John, not that it isn't available to every _body_ but it is something that cannot be willed. Still, you all fail to see the handiness of your own _Frequency Actuated Rectal Tremor_."

 _"A what?"_

 _"FART!"_

John shut his eyes and mustered all his strength in his fists and shoulders so as not to beat the man bloody; he ended heaving deep breathes. Weren't they just speaking of risking safety so as not to _waste time?_

"Why would you make something like that!?" John said through clenched teeth with a murderous eye to his target. The smell hasn't subsided, and he was almost feeling the killing spree.

"For that." Sherlock suddenly replied mysteriously with both eyes looking down the street. John followed his eyes and saw a black car glide down the 221B lane purposively.

"Your brother has a knack of appearing at the most trying moments." The doctor whispered, checking his watch that reflected half past six in the morning. The detective turned his back on the window without a word. "At least we get to annoy him today."

"That's not Mycroft. Different car, similar brand." Sherlock said shortly as he crossed the tainted room. The smell, it would seem, was planning to stick for long unlike the natural element which perhaps was no thanks to Sherlock. John looked out of the window again and saw a bald man come out of the car wearing a dark suit that was typical for Mycroft's men. Wondering what on earth it was about, John turned to Sherlock and saw him already sitting on his chair, waiting.

They only had to wait a few seconds before they heard the footsteps of their unknown visitor. Once on the top landing, they saw him pause by the door, looking grim and discomfited. John busied himself with his pen and notepad for the odor was still hanging in the air. Sherlock was eyeing the man in the suit with disinterest, if possible, even boredom. His theory, however, that the _Frequency Actuated Rectal Tremor_ release would dishearten any unwanted visitor to come in was disproved when the agent stepped in the room without further delay.

"I came here to speak with Sherlock Holmes." he said in a heavy voice, dark eyes already on the detective.

"Obviously." Sherlock did not bat an eye, the annoyance in his expression at the infectivity of the fart was replaced by apparent curiosity. "Now what sort of precarious situation has my brother found himself in to be sending a tenured subordinate, possibly five, six years in service? Unmarried, been in the office for 56 hours, no rest, expert code officer with inclination to caffeine because of his job that required attention for days? My brother caught his leg on the treadmill, didn't he?"

"He didn't send me, Mr. Holmes. I came here under orders from the officer-in-charge in the absence of your brother. Requesting that you assist us in the retrieval of Mr. Mycroft Holmes if it becomes necessary."

"Absence?" John choked as the last effect of the F.A.R.T escaped the room, "Retrieval?" he looked pointedly at his best friend whose expression did not change one bit.

"Stop dramatizing words, John." He whispered, eyes rolling, "And you, stop with the cryptic words and give me details, or I'll throw you out for making the blogger so excited and let Mycroft rot wherever he is and whose lost d'you think it would be? God, you people are slow."

Details of the older Holmes' adventure was then unfolded from the planned incognito mode inside a hidden drug den, retrieving an important character whose name was classified—Sherlock eyed John for he had already shared this piece of information to his blogger at the request that he shut up about it or Mycroft will be slicing his blog to bits— to the appointed time of his own recovery from the location after the target has been secured.

"Your brother did not come out to meet us, Mr. Holmes. He was out of contact for more than two hours."

The consulting detective raised eyebrows sarcastically, "And after the _more than two hours_?"

"We received a message from him indicating certain locations. That was an hour and a half ago."

"Not his location?" John interrupted but Sherlock shooed him impatiently—

"It's a tracer, obviously. Mycroft never goes nowhere without a tracker in his spine. Or maybe it's his government he's attached his tracker into, afraid it'll float in the air when unsupervised _._ Maybe I'll mix something to make land float just to annoy him?"

"Sherlock." John shot him a reprimanding look before turning back to the visitor.

"It so happens the tracker also has a Morse code mechanism." The agent went on, "To assure us that precise information can be given. We've been using it with other agents who cannot have any mobiles exposed during secret missions. It's attached on the palm with a fake skin to go unnoticed."

"Mycroft's design?" Sherlock smiled slightly when the man nodded. "Always with the practicality."

"Anyways, he began sending us locations we weren't expecting. Six locations to be precise and each has been identified except one."

Something in Sherlock changed as the agent said this, he sat straight, his eyes shone, and the anticipation betrayed his body. John observed this and immediately knew his friend was enthralled, _finally,_ by his brother's absence.

"You said six locations?" John repeated, now sounding lost, "Why would he send you six? Are you supposed to look for him on different areas?"

"John, imagination—please _._ " Sherlock turned to the doctor with glinting eyes, "Mycroft _is_ or was inside a drug den where _anyone_ —and I mean literally anyone can come and go— people who need fixes, trades and sometimes even _dealers or big dealers_ who happens to check their accounts, smuggles, even make further transactions to those places. Mycroft must've caught himself some big fish that he decided to _play."_ He turned to the agent who nodded eagerly in his direction.

"Precisely, Mr. Holmes. That's what we thought and having identified so, our men are already surrounding the perimeter of all these locations in Hammersmith, White City, Kensington, Westminster and London as we speak _._ "

"All major cities." John piped up. "What's the last place? You said you couldn't identify it, that's probably why you're here?"

"Yes," the agent nodded but before he could continue, the consulting detective, who turned pensive just then, beat him to it—

"Tell me, Mr. Wood—oh yes, I know you, I can read confidential files when I'm bored you know—don't tell Mycroft—" he glared at John, who knew perfectly well Sherlock _knows_ everyone working under his brother. Sherlock glanced back at Agent Wood in a more matter of fact tone, "obviously my brother's status is still _on mission_ till this very moment. Did he send a word that he needs my help?"

"No, Mr. Holmes."

"Your officer-in-charge suggested I get involved?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock suddenly chuckled continuously that lasted for a few seconds, the smile on his face could hardly be wiped out that made John frown in his direction.

"What's so funny?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Because these people are trying to give me a case where Mycroft's already involved and when Mycroft's involved personally I'd be the last person he would want to finish what he started unless he, in his own words, wants heaven and hell united. I am delightedly confused— _is it Christmas_?" he grinned at both men.

"These people wouldn't have come to you if nothing seriously bad already happened." John retorted. "Aren't you even slightly worried about your brother?"

"No." Sherlock made a face, "Why should I be? Mycroft, despite his tendencies too lazy about, is expert in infiltration. He has infiltrated a number of organization without detection so many times by merely using his best asset— _knowledge_ and do you know what that suggest? He's too brilliant to upset any cover, too smart to be _outsmarted_ and too precise to be worried about. _He's bringing war to them._ Now since he did not himself send a message to fetch me, I fail to see the reason of you even coming over?" he arched an eyebrow at their guest as he put both hands together.

John sighed on the opposite chair and would have thrown his notebook to his friend at his lack of finesse. And it was the wellbeing of his _only brother_ at stake. Did he really think Sherlock would have a different answer otherwise?

Well, he did hope. But them brothers were _never_ the affectionate sort. It really made him wonder what sort of brother Mycroft had been if this was how his younger brother would react every time his life was in jeopardy. Then again, _that was Mycroft, and this was Sherlock._ Who knows what kind of bond was there? If there was any.

"You said there was a sixth place." the doctor whispered at the silence that fell as Sherlock remained quiet afterwards having made his point and the obvious ' _no I would not take the case less Mycroft begs for it.'_

Agent Wood's eyes fell on the doctor and in a straightforward manner, he answered, "It's an incomplete name of a place, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. It was either he lacked the time to continue or something else happened. We could not verify for the tracer remained unmoving on its spot in Westfield. We could not move in also in case it exposes the intel about the six locations so we're going to do it all at once. The bust."

"What was it? The name of the place you can't find?" Sherlock finally gave in after receiving a glare from his flat mate.

"It's a common one, so we were hoping you could help us since you're also well verse in each location in the city of London. Well, it's just a plaza. Nothing more and going by the number of plaza in London—"

He was cut short once again when this time, Sherlock Holmes stood up without warning that surprised the other two men in the vicinity. The consulting detective looked entranced for a few seconds, before shooting a look at the agent.

"And you call yourselves MI6 agents. Do you know it's not even a place but a name of a person? Or at least a signature." When the agent continued looking confuse, did Sherlock below, _"El Plaza!"_

A dawn of comprehension appeared on Wood's face.

"Sherlock—" John began but Sherlock suddenly gasped, louder this time as something else occurred to him—

 _"_ You said your men are already in those locations? And you haven't retrieved my brother _—you're making a grave mistake, you have to find him first before the heist!"_ He was running towards the hanging rack, grabbing his thick coat and pulling on his shoes, still speaking to the much-aggravated John who was also pulling on his jacket and the much-obliged agent who was now contacting his men, "El Plaza is not a simple _drug dealer,_ he's one of the leaders of the Zetas—a ruthless group of military deserters turned drug traffickers who kidnaps and tortures people just to show their power! They even have their own civil war among their group members. No doubt Zeta is one of the most dangerous organizations in the world and if Mycroft ends in their hands—"

They were practically running down the stairs with John at his heels—

"Mycroft's undercover." John reminded him quietly.

"Except when they realized that all their operations had been obstructed by a single person who happens to be in their vicinity?" Sherlock threw his best friend a look, "Oh, Mycroft knows how to play the game but only to a point—I don't think he's much inclined when it comes to what happens next—"

"Too late—" called Agent Wood who came bounding after them from the stairs with phone on his ears, his face mixed with expressions that Sherlock did not greet too happily. "They've made the raid. All of the drug dealers had been caught."

John stopped a breath while Sherlock's eyes flickered with interest and a tinge of worry that passed ever so slightly on his straight face as he breathed when he turned his back on them unto the streets—

 _"Oh, brilliant."_

* * *

 ***ToBeContinued***

*laughs with Sherlock* _Is it Christmas?_

 _I don't think Mycroft, for one, would be that intimidated of blood like in s4e3 -.-_

 _Still, splash of colour next -.- and the WAR is On!_

 **Thanks for reading! ^_^**

 **~W.G~**


	3. The Mistake

***Brother's Opium War***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 _Everyone's running everywhere! xD Hold on your belts!_

 _And its quite long *O* but since it's gonna be one of my last fics well... XD_

 **Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

 **Three: The Mistake**

* * *

The raid was done, and no sign of Mycroft was seen. The atmosphere was already murky inside the moving car and as if this wasn't enough Sherlock—who was ever the mood-setter, just had to speak—

 _"He's dead._ I think it's better if he's dead."

John threw his friend a reproachful look while Agent Wood did not bat an eyelid at the statement. Sherlock had been very vocal of his brother's inevitable _death_ ever since Wood had updated them on the drug den's status that was raided concurrently with the other five spots to retrieve Mycroft. Unfortunately, there had been no news of his whereabouts except the capture of at least three personnel and forty-six users which only made the younger Holmes' claim _plausible_. John almost believed him for the next five minutes of the ride, thinking of nothing that could save Mycroft when he was in the middle of gunfights and _proper criminals!_ But he had hoped Sherlock would not embrace this fact so easily, which was what he was doing so typically now.

"You don't think that." John countered calmly as if saying it would make it true; he tried to search any sign of uncertainty in his friend's blank face and saw none. Sherlock Holmes was stating cold fact as it is. Like the usual. "Maybe he—"

"Los Zetas members are never known for mercy, John." Sherlock's unwavering eyes met the doctors and the flat stare he received made the doctor despair, "They are mercenaries, trained elite group with military skills and tactics they only use to protect their market share on drug cartels; they are brutal, fierce and executes people on the mark be them friend or foe leaving traces all over places to show power. One of the many instance, they kill assigned Police Chief of Mexico region, leaving their heads in front of the police stations, or ambush and killed on the spot. Politicians mean nothing to them, they killed 20 Mexican Mayors in a year; reporters executed in their own videos and murdered in their own home. Without a doubt Zetas are one of the _most sadistic, most psychopathic criminal organization_ in Mexico so there you see why I think my brother's dead."

"I get the picture." John shifted his eyes on the car floor for a second before looking up at the detective again, "But Mycroft's smart— maybe he's able to save himself?"

"With a group that shoots first and asks questions later?"

John gritted his teeth in annoyance, "So he knows they're dangerous! Why did he go after them like— _like you!?"_

"Is that supposed to be an insult—?" Sherlock's impassive face turned into a frown. "Fancy understanding his brain waves, John." He looked outside the window where the sky, though already morning, was still bleak, "Let's apply your _'maybe'_. Maybe he got bored. Maybe he didn't like their breath, or maybe," he flashed his flat mate a look again, "he's trying to bring down as many of them as he could before he died, which is more than I could say about him. All this time I thought he'd die in his sleep with his umbrella without a care in the world—"

"Stop—" the doctor shook his head with eyes shut, "Just stop acting he's already dead! It's not helping."

"Yes, it is helping." Sherlock snapped, "What's the point of you mourning over the dead, you can't help them. We've been through this now, get over yourself. We need to stick to the fact that if we do not hurry _El Pla Za_ will escape and if he does then nothing really ever changed in the world."

"But if Mycroft's _alive—"_

"Yes? Then we can all picture him in our head as El Pla Za slowly carve with a jack knife on his face, then cut off his ears, then his eyes—then his legs—"

 _"Jesus."_ John shook his head and let it fall on his hand while Agent Wood, who was sitting behind him, was looking at Sherlock with a strange expression. The detective noticed it and gave the man his full attention.

"You also want to hope he's alive?" it was weaved with sarcasm that made John press his lips.

"No," Wood shook his head quietly, his eyes not leaving the detective's, "I don't think that's any advantage for him but… I would have thought it as a delicate matter to be discussed in an offhand manner, Mr. Holmes. He is your brother after all."

Sherlock gaped at the man in silence, and then looked at John who met his eyes, probably wondering if he had gone too far and then everything went still inside the car. It took another five minutes before they reached the drug den which in broad day light was quite different than Sherlock remembered it to be. The palpable number of police car and their yellow tapes surrounding the once eerie, isolated building indicated the action that happened not ten minutes ago. There were still plenty of men being towed in police trucks, all of them out of their senses, and half asleep. Police jeepneys were already setting off to the police stations with their carriages and ambulances that didn't cease to arrive.

John's first instinct was to run to them, hoping the Mycroft would be there but they were met by another Agent in black who shook his head after speaking on his radio.

"There were no identified suspects in this area except the users and a look-out guarding the door. It seemed they knew we were coming and was gone even before we arrived. We found skid marks out of a car at the backdoor and traces of blood, and then this—" he raised a gloved hand and showed them a plastic container for evidence. "It was found in the room where Mr. Holmes was apparently kept."

Looking over, John saw it was a piece of an already destroyed mini gadget covered in dark grease—

"A chip?" he asked while Sherlock walked passed them onto the familiar steep stairs of the underground den.

"Tracer." The consulting detective whispered as he disappeared on view and John ran after him with a lump forming in his throat as he realized it was not grease after all.

"Mycroft's tracer?" he asked, his lips drying again.

"Obviously."

"Was it soaked in—?"

"Blood." Sherlock supplied without glancing back, his hurried steps not slowing, "It was supposed to be hidden in an artificial skin and simply detaching it would be enough to remove it. But the tracer was in pieces and destroyed in fragments, not intact to be considered stepped on, and then the blood—conclusion: they shot it with a bullet out of his hand once they discovered him a spy and escaped—yes, that's how they would react."

"And Mycroft?" it was a tentative question.

"They shot his hand because he's a spy. What more when they realized all their operations had been impeded by him?"

John did not dare break the silence that followed with his own conclusion forming of Mycroft's fate. He silently dashed after Sherlock who had ducked inside what appeared to be a narrow opening, leading into a cave-like place with low lamps and ceiling that lit a large room inside. Dozens and dozens of blankets were on the floor with some officers still investigating at every corner with masks on their faces. The doctor had to clamp his hand on his mouth and nose once he ducked inside for the cloud of smoke was great and the strong smell of cigarette, nicotine and other drugs was still hanging in the air. Not only that but the apparent compost on the floor, plastics, syringes, and more plastics mixed with human waste. John did not mind the stench as he was already exposed to a more notorious aroma, courtesy of his flat mate and his horrid artificial _FART._ He was amazed by Sherlock however, at how easy and _acquainted_ he was with the place despite the drastic change—then remembered it was not a good thing. The toxic fumes became unbearable at one point when Sherlock lead him to a room full of empty bunkers except the shadow of police coming out of the opposite door.

"In here, sir." Called another agent, nodding at Agent Wood who was just behind the doctor. John let him pass through and whispered behind his best friend as they followed—

"Mycroft infiltrated this place?"

"Queen and country." Sherlock replied quietly without turning, "He's a real busy body when it comes to saving anyone from the _family_. Alas, it seems like _they_ could do nothing to save him this time. Typical."

"We'll find him."

"Dead or alive?"

"It isn't funny."

"Truth is never. I'll suffice in hunting down his murderers; he wouldn't like that, of course, but I never listened to him alive, what difference does it make?" Sherlock made a face, "And they said _vengeance is sweet_. Imagine me invading Mexico. All the fun it would be. I honestly don't think you should come—"

"You're already planning ahead." John shook his head in exasperation.

"When did I never?"

"Can we just concentrate in finding your brother _alive_ first, _forgodsake_ —!"

"Mmm…told you the probability of that, John, will be disappointing."

"No, but really…" The doctor hesitated, his frustration at his friend's denial becoming more evident as they get closer to their destination. And yes—it was obvious Sherlock was in denial— _no matter how much he denied it!_ What more of what they will find inside. John fretted to think of the impending disaster because he knows his friend more than Sherlock knows himself. It will be a _mess_ because despite all odds, and of Sherlock Holmes being known as a 'heartless machine', as what Agent Wood seemed to point out in the silence of the car, John Watson knew _better._ John knew Sherlock and he was much _better._ So he asked the question—

"Do you really think he's dead?"

There was a short pause from his best friend as he stopped just outside the door of the next room. The doctor spied in his eyes that pensive look he would see when he was concentrating. He prayed there was something in his mind palace that could solve even this tragic case. Then in a very low voice, Sherlock replied. "I don't know… until I see a body."

John did not know whether to be happy or distraught so bracing himself, he followed Sherlock into the square room with nothing except a single light bulb on their heads. It was an empty room with only three agents, him and Sherlock ambling about.

"Nothing." John breathed a sigh of relief but not before seeing his friend move forward and knelt on the ground.

" _Nothing_ you can see." Sherlock said as he took out his peering glass down the floor in all fours. John was on him at once while the Agents were speaking around them.

"Did you find anything?" Agent Wood was looking down at Sherlock while his men, in their dirty whitegloves, and notebook shook their heads.

"There are blood traces in the room, that's where we found the tracer and a bullet." He indicated the spot where the consulting detective was kneeling, and John saw red smears and spots which was probably _Mycroft's blood._ From the corner he spotted a shrapnel of a bullet, already encircled with chalk as police evidence. It made him press his lips again and knelt straight, eyes on the agents. "We also found traces leading to the backdoor," he pointed at the wall and the doctor saw that concealed on the same gray color was an actual door leading to a dark passage. "That goes straight to the backdoor, aside from the skid marks and blood, we didn't find anything else."

Sherlock stood up without a word, putting his lens inside his coat. John watched him and when he saw no reaction, he had to look down the ground again into the smear of dried blood, his best friend's possible line of thought clear: _If they killed Mycroft on the spot there'd be a body and more blood…_ he heaved a sigh.

"But what of Mr. Holmes?" Agent Wood asked as his two men lead him to the door.

"No sign of him sir," the agent responded quietly, "The tracer's gone and all we have are the cameras surrounding the street. Our agents are retrieving them for possible clues. We're doing our best to track them down."

John expected Sherlock to cut him, but he didn't. Without a word, they followed the men into the passage, John following his friend. If the trace of blood stopped at that door, then how else were they going to find Mycroft? Is Mycroft going to be one of those bodies dumped on Thames? Or disappear forever without a trace? John could not help stealing a glance at his friend knowing full well that deep within his mind palace, Sherlock was firm with his conclusion and this was making his face and his heart set so coldly, because if it was so, there was nothing that could be undone. John looked behind him.

 _Maybe Mycroft was indeed…_

He looked back, only to realize that Sherlock was not following behind him but was still standing at the threshold, examining the wall leveled with his waist. John stopped walking as he saw the consulting detective touch and trace the wall with his finger, paused as he raised his hand—then his eyes widened as he shouted out loud—

 _"I need lights!"_

John was the first person beside him with the torch of his cellphone on—

He saw blood on his best friend's finger and automatically set the torch light on the wall—it revealed a long line of blood in one stroke and as John followed it, he saw the line go up and track down twice and then formed a shape of _u_ before ending there. Greatly bewildered, he turned to his friend as the agents ran towards them and saw that Sherlock's eyes were glinting with interest.

 _"Interesting, brother, really interesting."_ He breathed as the agents halted behind them.

"Lights!" Agent Wood called and minutes later they were all facing the wall with the strange looping cursive line like a signature. For the first time in his life, John knew what the code was called, but its equivalent in meaning was lost to him. To naked eyes who was not familiar of it, it may appear only as gabble—a simple marking of a hand leaning for support—but not for them. It was something he as a medical doctor had encountered in university as a prerequisite course, and something he often used when writing down prescriptions, or even jotting down note of Sherlock's new adventure. It was as common as breathing to him—to them English men— or those under the course of journalism—

"Short handwriting." Said the Agent behind them whom John never really recalled having asked the name. But it was true, the long red line on the wall as a form of _shorthand_ writing— a type of symbolic speed writing that compresses the language, intertwined letters to form words without using the common alphabet. Much more than a code, it was a _method_ to make listing on note pads quicker especially when you are a news reporter. John, living with Sherlock, had master the art with his flat mate's quick and often sporadic speeches.

"You think Mycroft…" John whispered, thinking of the man with a hole in his hand leaving such a discreet message right after getting shot. He turned to Sherlock, expecting him to at least show any sign of concern at his brother's exertion, but he only gave a curt nod.

"To the last touch." he said shortly, and John was left to think alone of the horrendous situation Mycroft found himself in.

"But it's…" Agent Wood now went on as he too understood the problem John had encountered. "It makes no sense." He looked at them with a deep frown, "I'm an expert on code and shorthand is easy as breathing to me but this is not recognizable of the Gregg's or Pitman's system. It's not even Tironian's which is one of the oldest and it's Latin! Which makes me doubt if this is not a mere smear on the wall…"

"It's not." Sherlock took the center stage with eyes not leaving the mark, "It's nothing you know because it's my brother's own developed system." He glanced at them quietly. "I can read it. It's very simple and I know it's really him. _He even left his name on the word._ " A glimmer of hope lit not only John's face but also the others as Sherlock looked back at the wall. " _Holdcroft._ It says _'Holdcroft'._ "

A dawning comprehension hit the agents' faces and no sooner, the other agent was already on his phone and running to the back door with urgency finally expected of the Secret Service. Agent Wood was left to explain at the questioning stare from the doctor and the silent consulting detective.

 _"Operation Holdcroft*_ is a joint effort to share intelligence of the Metropolitan police, British Transport police and other police forces in major perimeter of the capital like Kent, Hampshire, Surrey, Sussex, Thames Valley, Westfield, East End, Harlow to round up all the gangs, members, dealers against drug trafficking. The last time the Metropolitan did it, they've gotten 74 arrests from Hackney, Brent, and Newham alone."

"They?" asked John.

"MI6 does not get involve with the actual operation but the supply of intelligence. Mr. Holmes was particular with that. He has noted the increase of drug trafficking in the country and is, with all effort, fighting alongside the local authorities. Ever since _Operation Holdcroft_ and _*Operation Jupiter,_ there's been a slight vary in the scale in favor of us. Having Operation Holdcroft activated again means MI6 is open to give classified information to the Metropolitan and assist them in every way possible and vice versa since the hunt for Mr. Holmes need all the aid we can get. With El Pla Za among us, I believe it is the right decision."

"Yes, that's all very good operations—but what about Mycroft?" John steered the conversation back in the present, aware that Sherlock had lost interest a long while ago and was staring at the blood message again.

"We are already checking all the CCTV footage," Agent Wood answered with a nod, "There are total of six cameras surrounding the perimeter of the roads and intersection—we'll get them."

When nobody replied, Agent Wood excused himself to attend to his other men still searching the back street for clues. John heaved a long sigh and turned to his ever-quiet friend.

"He says they'll get them." He repeated quietly as if Sherlock did not hear.

"Yes, which means another five years before an actual resolution, no. I don't think we should prolong my brother's agony."

"You have another clue to follow?"

Sherlock raised his hand and John saw a stub of cigarette on his hand. His eyebrows furrowed, the doctor took the stub and studied it and saw nothing—which was apparently not the same for the consulting detective. He returned it to his friend.

"Mycroft's touch you said." He said in awe as he looked at the wall again. "Leaving clues here and there… something only _you_ could read. It's as if he's counting on you to come." He gave Sherlock a pointed look to which the man nodded.

"To gloat." Sherlock said, mildly touched, "To show off his last hold of _power._ If you put it simply… a dying message."

"Sherlock—"

"Pretending he's not dead is a terrible inconvenience—"

" _You said until we see a body!_ " the two glared at each other but then—

 _"Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson!"_ Agent Wood suddenly yelled from the backdoor, _"A dead body's been found!"_

John was last to react and the second he realized this, Sherlock was already sprinting ahead of him and had disappeared out of the door in speed of light. The doctor ran after him feeling nonplussed and uncertain, as if walking into a hazy space—seeing Sherlock's back disappear in a slow motion—

 _Mycroft—?_

Before he knew it, he was outside the door, turning to his left to find the group huddled close to a toppled steel dumpster with black trash bags inside and then— a _stiff._ John hurried towards Sherlock who was already turning the body with both hands— John's heart stopped as he halted his steps, eyes transfixed at his friend who did not move a muscle and waited for the inevitable. Sherlock then stood up, his face was very pale.

All sound seemed to vanish in the air—

"It's not him." Sherlock gibbered abruptly, with difficulty in gulping as his Adam's apple uncertain whether to stay up or down, "Uh… not him…" he repeated, his wide eyes meeting the doctor's, who understood.

"Then who?"

"It's… uh, it's Big D… one of the care taker of the cartel."

John looked down the dead body, which was massive in size, his bloody face did not cover his open eyes, staring into the sky blankly. His mouth was open in what seemed to be his last scream. A bullet hole was on his head.

"Who killed him?" Agent Wood said out loud while his men cleared up the body and Sherlock and John remained rooted on the spot. "You think your brother—?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head at once, eyes darting to the dead body being covered on the ground, "Or we wouldn't have found it hidden in the container. No, this is a work of at least three other men. My brother did not, and could not possibly carry such a heavy man… and could not escape their clutches."

"Why kill him?" John was finally able to let out a sigh that was stuck in his stomach for a while. That was when his friend's glinting eyes found him again that made the doctor feel apprehensive, not for himself, but for the captured Holmes.

" _Mistake._ " Sherlock said vaguely, his eyes darkening even more, "Their plans were thwarted. Someone ought to pay."

John did not think it possible for his heart to sink any further. As it did, John saw something move at the corner of his eyes. Looking at the end of the street, he saw a thin form of a man limping away into a narrow alley way.

 _"Hey!"_

* * *

It was all too blurry to remember, _but he did._ The pain, the noise and the struggle. His right hand bleeding, damaged, immovable, numb in all aspects— _useless._ He was humored by the cuffs he was in.

Mycroft's head throbbed terribly as it was once again hit with the butt of a gun; now it was scorching by the minute. Still he commanded himself to breathe with ease, to take matters into the mind much more than his physical condition. He was never lacking in concentration and so was able to put at bay half the excruciating pain.

 _Did he think he would survive?_ Not in the least.

It would even be _unthinkable._ He was already preparing for the worst like his initial captor, who upon meeting El Pla Za's men and explaining what happened, was shot in the head near the dumpster while the other young man escaped. If a twinge of unease hit him, he adamantly pushed it aside as the gun was next pointed to himself.

 _To death then._

But then he was inconveniently thrusted inside the car to wherever they planned to bury him. Or maybe was going to be tortured and get blamed for everything. He pitied how scared they were with this _boss._ Still, Mycroft was heedless to all their demands and the next thing he knew, he was hit in the head and blacked out.

 _Why was it always the head?_

When Mycroft came to, he realized he was still inside a moving car. The same car. Sun struck the heavily tinted glass and he saw the car itself passed by Big Ben. Blinking in confusion with his throat on fire, his head still pounding, the British Government Head felt something heavy was leaning against his shoulder. Turning behind him, it took all him everything he's got left not to jump back—for there behind him, with mouth open, dead as a doornail, were his two captors who put him in the same car.

The words _murder, gunshot, point blank range_ all crisscrossed in his mind, his stomach clenched at all the blood and guts— until he realized was someone else was there with him in the car—someone _alive and smoking cigar—_

Mycroft turned his head and saw El Pla Za; he was everything his profile described—his old, square, tanned face, and short, dark hair, the long scar across the bridge of his nose, his red, dark eyes that knew no fear, his large nose to his large mouth—and all the other ailments, habits, and bloodlust Mycroft could read. It made him sat rigidly, especially when he saw the man playing with a gun on his hand.

"I heard you cracked my code." Plaza said simply, eyes haunting, his voice deeply Mexican accented. "Really smart. I'm impressed."

"If… you call that a code." Mycroft said, unable to contain himself. It earned a nasty curving of displeased lips.

"Five hundred men and two billion pounds. You know you owe me?" he played with the gun still.

Mycroft's eyes flashed. "You are in the soil of my country, I owe you _nothing."_

"You a British spy?"

"What else would I be to you?"

Plaza gave a grin, but his eyes were ever dangerously sparkling, "I heard British men are loyal to their Queen to a fault."

"Something I cannot say the same with you." Mycroft glanced at the bodies beside him, and glared back at his enemy, "These are your men… _you killed them."_

"They are idiots who costed me billions. What's a hundred men if all of them have no brain? I respect intelligence— something too rare in my country—and the way they told me how you did your job… I think I underestimated the British spies."

"That's your mistake. This country will never bow down to your terrorism. And be assured, even when you kill me—a wind so strong from the East will destroy you." Mycroft said proudly; he was already resigned to his fate and unconcerned if it was sooner or later. And he was so confident of his brother— _he didn't realize how much he was relying on Sherlock with this—_

His defiance, however, seemed to have a different result with the notorious murderer. Plaza was grinning again and the British Government Head was confused at the idle chat. "Well? What are you waiting for? You're not planning to make me your new friend, are you?"

"On the contrary," El Pla Za's voice boomed with a chuckle, his eyes were nowhere near friendly. " _I think we are going to be inseparable._ I have a proposal to make." He pointed the gun at Mycroft who did not even blink, already making a choice with chin high—

 _"Queen and country."_

* * *

 ***ToBeContinued***

 _A/N: I overdid it, didn't I? -.- very looonggg indeed!_

 _Three more chapters tops! Maybe we can even finish before 2018!_

 _Sad there's no new Sherlock T_T_

 **Thanks for reading! ^_^**

 **~W.G~**


	4. The Late Brother

***Brother's Opium War***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 _THE WAR IS ON! This is a real treasure cove XD_

 _Merry Christmas to all!_

 **Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

 _ **Four: The Late Brother**_

* * *

Sharp sounds of door closing and opening and closing again filled the air.

"Sherlock… you're opening all the mortuary cabinet…"

"So?"

"You said you're only supposed to look for the bodies brought only today…" Molly Hooper crossed her arms but the affectionate expression did not leave her face, "Those bodies are from three days ago."

"Mmm." Sherlock closed another door with a sharp click, then opened the last one in the row and saw white hair of a woman and closed it again sharply before turning to the mortician. "You're a specialist registrar for corpses, the only one here and with a busy schedule with bodies raining every day it is quite possible for you to commit mistake—for example that body over there on the table has been tagged yesterday's date but I could swear I just saw him leave his car this morning. How's that possible?"

Molly looked behind her to the corpse _without any tag_ and turned back to the consulting detective only to realized he had flown to another set of mortuary cabinet and opening them one by one. She sighed in strode beside him with hands on her pocket, fishing for her phone.

"Just who're you looking for?"

"My brother." He said simply that made the lady blink several times—

"Y-your _brother?_ You mean the government employee?"

"Technically he employs everybody but, yes, him."

"You mean he's dead?"

"Possibly. That's why I'm looking for evidence. Without solid evidence the mind tends to wander, even turn stagnant and rebellious, that is the worst for mental faculties. Other human population would have succumbed to despair base on observation but that is because _they cared so much_. The disadvantage of your _fragile hearts,_ always on display— like accidentally burning your finger, screaming around and forgetting to turn to ice. And _shut up, John!"_ the detective banged the last cabinet door before flying to another cabinet. Molly looked around and saw no John, then remembered Sherlock's habit of talking to himself _without John._

"Where's John?" she asked, now looking concerned as she took her mobile out and dialed the doctor.

"With the other employed agents of my late brother, interrogating an injured criminal with all the forces in Britain." He chuckled shortly. "Surprise me when it can actually change anything."

"John, it's Molly." The mortician turned around with her mobile on her ear, "Its Sherlock—"

 _"You mean he's there?"_

Sherlock tugged the phone out of Molly's hand and heard his friend— "Of course, I'm here, I told you I'll be here." He heard John sigh on the other end.

 _"Whoever you were talking to at that time—it wasn't me."_

"Of course, it was, I called him John."

"You call my armchair _'John'."_

"How's the interrogation of your suspect?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, moving about and away from Molly who went about to close the other cabinet doors the consulting detective left behind. "Helpful?"

"No, he just knows what we already know. Other than that he's not much of an accomplice. And he's a kid."

"Shame, really." He turned his cold eyes to the next cabinet and opened an empty one. Sherlock stared at it, not moving. "I could have been there to hear everything. Maybe even hit him with a riding crop to make him retell how they got shot by Plaza's men, escaped to the alleys, heard the police come but because he was shot, he hid on the dumpsters and watched as we uncovered his ally."

 _"Did you also deduce he's got Mycroft's phone and fake ID's?"_

Sherlock paused, his eyes flickering for a second. Mycroft was not one to bring his own personal gadget in any undercover assignment. If he does it would be a decoy, filled with information he was in character with. In short, it was all _useless._

"Throw it at his face, it might be useful that way." Sherlock suggested, feeling his own mobile ring on his chest. "Better yet, you help me find his body, as I am dutifully doing here in the morgue. Now tell the agents have a busy day finding empty cars by the road or car parks, they might be surprised what's hidden in the trunk."

 _"Sherlock— Mycroft's not—"_

Sherlock hung up irritably and answered the call on his mobile—

"What?" he snapped.

 _"Sherlock?"_

The consulting detective's eyes widened as he recognized the voice. It was barely a whisper, even urgently done so, crisp and ready to give an order but it was _him._ In the _voice._ Sherlock blinked several times before looking away from the empty mortuary cabinet and closing it with a loud snap.

 _"Hello, brother. Funny, you're not dead."_

* * *

It was a 9mm gun in a silencer, obviously. The bullet that travelled 900mph ricocheted because his hand was planted on the floor when his wrist was grudgingly stepped on once identified as a spy, so it didn't go _through_. But the pain was real; the piercing cry he let out as the bullet pierced him was real as the blood that splattered the ground. It shuddered his whole body, burned his insides and shook his every sense to the core.

 _And worse was yet to come._

With feebleness, he held on to consciousness and felt himself get dragged up. He could still see the sole markings of his attacker on his wrist and feel the overwhelming pain that nearly made him past out if not for his mental faculties that prevented him from falling into shock. He was tormented by the pain, but his mind was as steel as he trained it to be. Plans flashed before his eyes and as he knew how things would turn out, he managed to leave discreet markings on the wall in his own blood before letting himself get hauled out of the building. Sherlock will certainly have a field day, he thought,

Then more swift gunshots in the air, and the real first body hit the ground. Then bodies just keep adding up with the trail he left behind, and he wondered… _when was his body going to be piled above the others?_

 _Soon._

Eventually, he was faced with the mastermind of it all: _El Pla Za._ Mycroft knew all about him from one glance— his bloodshot eyes caused by his insomnia, anorexia and eyesight degradation; the ghastly sight of his skin disease—clearly dermatosis— he'd been battling five to six years approximately. His sagging skin despite his bulk, his loose dress—loss of appetite and his uneven breathing, a cardiovascular condition, despite his aggressive talk all points to one bad habit of amphetamine abuse. Not to mention his age. The man was supposed to be in mid-40's in his profile now looked like in his late 50's. Premature ageing. _Amphetamine does that to you._

He didn't have to point it all out as he observed this. Unlike his younger brother, he does not enjoy seeing people easily _amused_ by such a simple play—it was _tiresome_. Sherlock, on the other hand, loses no time in _bragging_ and would point out even a person's last meal. El Plaza had _oyster_ before meeting him but that wouldn't make much of a conversation when two men were dead beside him and a gun was pointed on his face.

Mycroft welcomed it above everything. _He always knew—_

But then the Los Zetas leader offered a very crucial proposal that meant life and death. Nothing unusual— _just some conspiring remarks_ all Secret Service agents are well oriented and Mycroft did not miss the opportunity to recite the three words he himself wrote on the MI6 bylaws.

 _"Queen and country."_

The man shook his head. _"Respuesta equivocada_."

El Plaza pulled the trigger with a silencer—and Mycroft was left to deal with him shooting nonstop the already dead bodies of his henchmen till carpet floor turned dark with their blood, their skins and guts flying everywhere—even spattered on his cheeks— Mycroft bit his lower lip and looked away, feeling terribly nauseous at the inhuman activity. He clasped closed his fists so tight it numbed the injured one more. For brief seconds he wondered if he was shot, and wondered if his body would end the same with those empty shells beside him.

But it was obvious what El Plaza was doing. He was a cunning man, that was certain. He was instilling the most important psychological trauma to a hostage— _fear._ Mycroft does not fear him; if anything he was disgusted by the Mexican to the point of wanting nothing to do with him even if he dies.

The shooting stopped. Mycroft slowly looked down the carpet floor now soaked in blood… on to the red eyes of his imprisoner. With a manic grin, El Plaza put his gun beside him and feasted his eyes on his _art_ beside Mycroft. The British Government Head refrained from closing his eyes and glared— for doing otherwise would show his nemesis that he had won. It was all a mind game and Mycroft never intended to lose… _no matter the body count._

Then El Plaza stared at him and inclined his head a little.

"That should give you time to rethink. But you must know, I am not a very patient man."

Mycroft did not reply because he knew how his answer would affect not him but whoever else would be unlucky enough to be around; had he told El Plaza that shooting the dead was hardly any damage—knowing the man's temperament— the older Holmes was moved to think of the innocent bystanders that would be the receiving end of his gun.

 _This was not mere abduction but terrorism._

Few minutes later he found himself covered with a black bag thrown on his head; he was dragged off the car by the driver once it stopped in Westminster London, inside an underground parking space— possibly a hotel— Mycroft cursed himself for missing out the spot because he was distracted during the ride. Like having dead bodies beside him for target practice shooting not disturbing enough. The car door opened and large hands pulled him from the inside of the car.

He was thrown in a room with carpeted floor after the arduous 110 steps— aside from the pain as his feet kept hitting the metal stairs— of the fire exit. He then knew they were at the tenth floor, in the fourth room to the left. There he was tied in a chair from his waist to his shoulders. When the black bag was remove, he found himself facing the windows with curtains drawn. El Pla Za was nowhere in sight. This gave Mycroft time to assess the situation till he remembered there were human skin all over his suit. He closed his eyes in silence and tried to concentrate on other information—

 _Everything about him was aching from his sore feet to his thumping head…_ well, that's hardly helpful.

He saw the Elizabeth tower on his left not five minutes ago which means at central London—a hotel at central London directly surrounding the tower— at Westminster—could be the Rochester Hotel, The Grand, The Strand Palace—

 _It was terribly itchy and screaming to be washed…_ Mycroft sighed at his plight. He half opened his eyes to stare at his pitiable, spoiled right hand. His arms were not tied on the armchair and he saw it in full view after getting shot. The bullet may have ricocheted for all the momentum and created a cavity right there on his palm.

 _Ruptured skin… crushed soft tissues reaching midpalmar space… damaged blood vessels on the palmar fascia, infections noted on the discoloration and swelling. Already immovable. Possible bone fractures in the phalanx… bone instability… if unattended for much long it will affect the ulna and then the damage will have long lasting effect, even irreparable. Then the blood loss…_ He couldn't close his hand anymore.

If he'd live long enough to actually worry about its irreparability, that is.

The British Government Head distracted himself by looking around him with furrowed and sweaty brows; he then made a mental note to enter all hotels in the city to recognize them when he sees them. This one was not familiar with only a table in the middle like an office less with the sofa and the paintings on the blue wall. He was around Westminster, if he could only see the outside of that window—

Just then the door was opened and the Los Zetas leader in London appeared in all intent, carrying a black folder in his hand. Mycroft watched him warily, spotting three, four to five bulging of armed guns hidden in his suit— _two on both sides of waist, one at his backside, one on his chest pocket and a derringer on his right ankle._ With all the weapons, Mycroft wondered if he should tell him how terminally ill he is.

El Plaza turned to him in all business-like tone, as if already explaining to a comrade—

"I intend to leave London as soon as my last transaction is done. A private jet. You have no problems with jet?"

Mycroft did not miss the meaning and clenched his jaw. _"Go to hell."_

"How much do you know for a spy?" He was ignored.

"Not enough to satisfy you." Mycroft said slowly as he followed him with his eyes till he stopped by the table.

El Plaza smirked with a glance at him, "But you crack codes. That is all the important thing. _Todo lo demas sigue._ And if you continue looking at me like that, you might lose an eyeball. I only need a good eye for my code."

Mycroft shook his head unfeelingly. "I do not plan to help you in anyway, you might as well remove both my eyes, but my answer will be the same." With Sherlock's best tone he added in Spanish that was too easy for him, " _Vete a la mierda_ _."_

The Mexican stared at him with his mouth twitching, not looking pleased. A beat passed then he threw the folder on the table and sat down behind it with an ominous expression.

"You don't understand the situation you are in. Your very life is in my hands."

"And you don't seem to understand my response; _I won't be manipulated, s_ o what is delaying your threat?" Mycroft gritted his teeth.

El Plaza's eyes narrowed. "I thought I am speaking to a smart man?"

"And I to a Los Zetas leader with reputation that precedes him?" the older Holmes raised an eyebrow, "Shoot first and question later?" Playing threatening words was no stranger to him; Mycroft has his caliber. He just hoped it would be quick and not what he was seeing ahead of him. _Pain._

El Plaza looked enraged for a second, but he was able to calm himself down. Mycroft saw the change in his expression, from pure rage, to calm—then sudden delight presented by the smirk that appeared on his darkened face. He put his fingers together carefully and surveyed the older Holmes. Mycroft sensed something sinister was to come.

"I can be very persuasive, you know."

"I don't plan to be persuaded."

El Plaza nodded. "You have a steel mind, maybe you are prepared for death."

Mycroft remained unmoved. The drug cartel leader leaned back on his chair, eyes boring on his captive.

"So how do we paint this room red? Who do you want it to be?" he asked next, gesturing towards the door, "The bell boy? The maid? The manager? Name it." He leaned forward as Mycroft gaped at him in alarm, "Or is it the single parent, a woman with three children occupying the room at the right wing? Or the senior citizen just below this one?"

Mycroft's lips thinned as he saw the unavoidable _checkmate._ Plaza seemed to read his mind and smirked again.

"You see, _I know your kind._ People like you who like to sacrifice themselves for their country— _el martir_ _—_ changes their mind when civilians are involved, _todos son la misma raza_. The first to jump to death, but unwilling to comprise with their fellow countrymen. This pattern is too common for me. So who would it be?"

Silence fell in the room, leaving Mycroft to close his eyes once and heaved in some air. A man who knows how to play is a worthy candidate for such a large organization, he had to give him that. His ultimate silence seemed to finally ring an answer as El Plaza gathered his black folder on the table again.

"Now I got your attention, do you have a name, agent?"

Mycroft hesitated, then gave a dry reply. "William."

"William? Do all of you British men follow your monarchy names to the last will?" he grunted, "In my country, Hispanic names are taken because of España that conquered and colonized my country for more than a millennium. Of course, you do not know it— _you ignorant Europeans_ know nothing of other history aside from your Queen."

"Actually," Mycroft interrupted before he could stop himself again for that kind of insult was something he could never let pass, "You do not need to exaggerate. Three hundred years colonization was all there is, same with Philippines. Your country was colonized during Spain's reign of power, in case you were misinformed, from the 16th century. Before that your nation was widely known as a pre-Columbian nation and was founded Mexico-Tenochtitlan in 325 as an altepetl state with a strong Mexica empire expanding 15th century. In relation to names, it is hardly a secret; that your moniker— _El Plaza—_ translated as _The Plaza_ refers to the fact that you are a fieldworker and hands on to your every transaction is obvious; that the infamous drug cartel _Los Zetas_ founded their name from the idealism of the _la ultima letra,_ which means the final letter Z in Spanish is no secret either. That the 'Z-1' who founded your organization—let's be discreet to mention his name, former Governor Herrera— was said to influence most of the major cities in Mexico by the letter Z in all the names of the major states such as Veracru ** _z_** , Ori ** _z_** aba, Xalapa-Enrique ** _z_** , Coat ** _z_** acoalcos, Acul ** _z_** tingo, Cidudad Mendo ** _z_** a, **_Z_** ongolica and many others did not come unnoticeable to me. So pardon me for being an _ignorant European_ who also happens to know _your real name._ "

El Plaza's reaction was something Sherlock would enjoy. Mycroft soon was rewarded by a dumbstruck expression, his bloodshot eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets, his violet lips opened and dropped a centimeter, his shoulders sagged, but his stare was of pure interest.

When the Mexican found his voice, Mycroft was still just glad to put him in his place.

"So… you're really one of those agents who's really at the top of their game, eh, William?" he maneuvered out of his chair, carrying his black folder and sat down in front of the table instead, so that he and Mycroft were almost face to face. Nothing in between them. "All brains and skills. I believe in genius, I really do. My late brother was one and he's giving me trouble now. I've taken five CIA agents and three secret intelligence from other countries just to crack my code and like you—they're all at the top of their game but no one could really give me an answer. I think maybe it is because they have no knowledge of my country's past which is essential. But you… I think this time I took the right man. This could be all the difference."

Mycroft curt his eyebrows at the meaning of his words but remained quiet. El Plaza took his time, smiling to himself and just staring at him it made the British Government Head uncomfortable. Then finally, the Mexican began—

"You no doubt know the origin of my country? You know of the A ** _z_** tecs?"

Of course he does but he did not say so. In 1325, the Aztecs were the fist settlers in what was now called the Northern Mexico. They built The Aztec Empire before getting conquered by Spain. El Plaza took his silence as a yes and went on—

"There's a myth that goes along the line of our ancestry of the Aztecs in Mexico. It was said that when the Aztecs were looking for an ideal place to build a new city, the Aztec god told them to find a place where there would be an eagle, carrying a snake that lands on a nopal. As the prophecy would have it, they found the exact image of an eagle with a snake on a cactus in a huge swampy area and there they built their nation. The Tenochtitlan capital." He smiled to himself, "That's what my brother used to tell me as the history of his favorite Mexican figure. Then years later, came the Spaniards in the name of Hernán Cortés. The Tenochtitlan emperor, Montezuma II accepted his guest and offered Cortés gold and silver in the hopes that the Spaniard would leave them in peace. But knowing the Spaniards greed for power and authority, they ransacked the city of its treasure and killed its inhabitants. Brutally. Montezuma was killed and the Aztecs rose in rebellion. The Spaniard fools fled in terror, carrying with them all the stolen treasure which they were forced to dump in the waters of Lake Texcoco. A year later Cortés returned to conquer Tenochtitlan for good but the treasure was lost. Ultimately now known—"

"Montezuma's treasure." Mycroft finished for him, his mind working at the end of the story telling. Montezuma's treasure was listed as one of the _*Six Famous Missing Treasures of the World_. With a flat stare, he said, "You are telling me this… because you believe your code can uncover the lost Montezuma's treasure?"

"Oh, it has been retrieved." The Mexican man opened his folder, "Descendants of the Aztecs passed down details of how it was taken with Montezuma's exhumed corpse and brought it to Utah. It was lost in history forever until I and my brother traced it and was able to take possession of it. Wealth like that needs to be returned to my country." He smiled at Mycroft's impassive face. "You don't look excited."

Because something dark has indeed dawned on the British Government Head.

"I can't help but notice…" Mycroft was very careful in each word, "A treasure between brothers… and you mentioned _late brother…"_

El Plaza's face darkened despite the smile on his lips. "You truly are observant. But yes. I killed my brother." Mycroft said no more as the Mexican continued, "Like the Spaniards, he became possessed with greed, so I had to kill him before he gets to me. The fool. My only mistake was killing him _before_ realizing he did not keep the treasure in his mansion _but put it somewhere_ only the Aztec god knows. And now I'm only left with his code to know the exact location. I have scoured all his hidden mansions and cartels but found nothing. My only resort is to find someone with expertise on code breaking. I kidnapped more than you could imagine for this. Let's hope you really are better than you care to think."

He walked towards Mycroft who saw his every step full of menace. Of course, he knew the man had kidnapped plenty of people for his benefit. It was a thread among the Zetas—to take in whoever they want to—kidnapping of Mexican civilian was a common practice as show of power while the authorities' neglect and turn a blind eye. Engineers, doctors, slaves—it was all _Los Zetas'_ account.

To think he would someday fall in their hands was simply… awful.

The Black folder was handed to him and the British Government Head took it using his uninjured left. There was only a photo inside— A4 in size and colorfully showing a dead, bloody hand and then a piece of note beside it. The note had numbers—which Mycroft assumed was the code and it read—

 _5.44770+_

 _Veracruz_

Mycroft frowned, and then felt El Plaza walked behind him, grappled a fist full of his right shoulder and clasped it so tight to the point of pain; he felt the strain reach his already incapacitated right hand and let a soft hiss escape his lips.

"You can crack that, can't you?"

Mycroft tried to pull his shoulder away to no avail. With gritted teeth, he raised his chin and muttered—

"Everything takes time."

There was a knock on the door and another man in suspicious black suit motioned for his master. El Plaza straightened and tap Mycroft's shoulder one last time.

"Yours do not." He said and left the room with his cellphone on his hand, leaving the British Government Head time to bow his head, curse his burning hand and look around the room again. He let silence filled him, let air enter his lungs and blink several times before turning to the folder on his hand which he had _cracked_ at single glance.

 _Best nobody knows where it is for the time being._ He let the folder fall down the floor and then concentrated on the sleeve of his left hand. With effort, he shook it. He was bound tightly on the chair from waist to shoulder, so it took an amount of effort before he could slide that _object_ hidden by his left cuff.

A mobile phone slid out of it. _A bloody mobile phone._ Literally.

Mycroft raised his eyes on the doorway, before turning the mobile on. He remembered well how he found it lying there in front of his shoe from the dead body beside him. Plaza entertained himself by shooting the dead bodies while Mycroft inconspicuously stepped on the mobile and retrieved it when the black bag was thrown on his head. He didn't know what happened to the bodies but he was sure they were burned somewhere. Whether anyone noticed the missing mobile phone, Mycroft wouldn't know. They did not search him a second time after all. There was a passcode but it was trivial, the number of times he saw the man type it—by listening intently on each note it made and the movement of his finger—was all he needed.

 _Access granted._

He raised his eyes to the door again, and then browsed the dead man's inbox.

What he found was worth the trouble of reaching this point of the _laborious journey_. Determined to put everything to a stop, he then dialed the number of his most destructive asset, because that's what his brother really _is_ and right now that was what Mycroft wanted to happen in this organization— _to have Sherlock Holmes fall in their path towards destruction._

He had to turn on speaker for he could not put it on his ear. His brother's phone rang once, twice, _thrice._

 _Obviously his brother was having fun making him wait._

"What?" came the snap answer anyone who ever called him probably received on daily calls. _Meaning, him._

 _"Sherlock."_ Mycroft said with some urgency as he looked at the doorway again with the volume low. There was a short pause, and his brother in a bored tone replied—

 _"Hello, brother. Funny you're not dead."_

"Sorry to disappoint," Mycroft raised both eyebrows, "but not for long, I suppose. I'm just cutting your fun short and give you some real data since all of you would likely to be dancing without appropriate steps by now."

 _"Where are you?"_

"Somewhere in Westminster but I couldn't be sure, I'm all tied up."

 _"Ahh… that's pathetic, isn't it?"_

"Don't start now, I'm in a hurry. Apparently, another transaction is on going as we speak and it's big, Sherlock. Really big. It involves all states in England and all done through email. But I've found their locations fine using this phone I snatched from a corpse. It has very intricate details. You'll be sorry to find I found your biggest supplier of cocaine, brother that would result in the absence of the drug in this country for half a year, I estimate. You'd have no problem identifying them too if you use the Cartesian square. I'm sending you all the coordinates. Time is of the essence, they are doing it simultaneously again at 13:45. In short now."

 _"Do they never learn of doing simultaneous transactions one after another?"_

"With a big catch not long ago, they'll probably thinking the police would be so occupied with the number of drugs they already gathered. Besides, El Plaza is no ordinary scoundrel. He can think."

 _"How is he so far?"_

"Everything we ever believed him to be."

 _"I'm sending it to your agent—why didn't you send it to your agent?"_

"Because I'm bullying you to it— _why do you think I sent it?_ " Mycroft sighed quietly, suddenly remembering how dehydrated he was. "This could be my last phone call and you still never think, brothermine. It's like hitting two birds with one stone, I don't have the leisure to phone call everybody just to say goodbye. But then that would mean three phone calls only, wouldn't it?"

A ringing silence filled the other end and Mycroft wondered if he was still connected. "Sherlock?"

 _"You don't think you'll survive?"_

" _We both don't think I'll survive_. Even you found it amusing. You've been busy trying to find me in the morgue. You were at the morgue, weren't you? I thought I heard Ms. Hooper's voice at the background calling to you. Maybe you'll get lucky next time."

 _"I might. So what's your situation?"_

Mycroft looked down his injured hand. "I've lost all the feeling on the artery of my right hand. The blood already clogged, and infection is unavoidable. Amputation necessary by now. Familiar threats here and there and amusing colluding remarks from captors. But I never planned to be persuaded in anyway less I bury myself in shame. Whatever the outcome is, you'll always know _I will never betray my country."_

 _"That is all good and shiny dialogues but you know sending these locations—once they find again you've brought down another opium trade you won't be as lucky the second time. This is your own death sentence."_

"Again, why do you think I sent it?" He heard Sherlock's impatient clicking of the tongue and wondered briefly why his brother was all worked up. Then something hit him hard as he realized something that made him frown, even smile next at his readings. "Brothermine, are you concerned for—"

A loud honking sound of a lorry was heard from the phone next and Mycroft had to clap his hand down the mobile and raised his eyes, afraid his connection had been compromised. When nobody came in, he turned it over again—

"Are you planning to give me a heart attack?!" Mycroft demanded through gritted teeth, _"I am a hostage in case you forgot and I'm on speaker phone since I am unfortunately tied up!"_

 _"What—sorry?"_ Sherlock's voice was loud, _"I crossed the street—you were saying—?"_

"You're going to get me killed! And I'm even planning to choose the right hour!"

 _"Oh, shut up, Mycroft, you're not going die there."_

"Watch me."

 _"I'm hanging up—I can't speak and think and talk and avoid people and cars—hang up—"_

"Sherlock?"

 _"In fifteen minutes I'll call you again so you better put that on silence if you don't want to get discovered. And frankly brother, your men have already received your message and most likely on their way to entrap England drug dealers again, which puts you in a very bad situation, but then use your brains till I come and take you out. That's why you called me, isn't it?"_

"No—"

 _"Hang up—"_ the line died, leaving Mycroft staring at the mobile for full ten seconds before putting it back on the sleeve of his cuff. To even think that Sherlock would peacefully say goodbye to him was out of the question. Why did he even bother? But Sherlock will find him.

The British Government Head sighed.

Fifteen minutes later something changed in the atmosphere, the same moment that the mobile on Mycroft's phone began ringing. He struggled to get it out of his hand, worried that his brother had gotten himself in trouble, when he saw on the small screen the letter _Z_ in capital letter calling. Mycroft stared at it, then comprehension hit him as he heard the door open.

 _"I knew it was you."_

Mycroft sharply looked up and saw El Pla Za in the open doorway with a dark glow on his eyes.

 _How late his brother could be?_

* * *

 ***ToBeContinued***

* * *

 _Respuesta equivocada- wrong answer_

 _Todo lo demas sigue- everything else follows_

 _Vete a la mierda- fuck off_

 _el martir the martyr_

* * *

 _A/N: **Operation Holdcroft** is actually a real operation by the British Police ;D_

 _I love spotting Mycroft's part name like that xD even if its coincidence ;)_

 _All other information are with sources, i should put the six treasures site here how? XD_

 _Next chapter might be before new year though! And it'll be painful T_T prepare hearts!_

 _Happy Christmas to all!_

 **Thanks for reading! ^_^**

 **~W.G~**


	5. The Question

***Brother's Opium War***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 _It's been a great year ;)_

 _Would be better if there was a Sherlock on sight of 2018!_

 **Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

 _ **Five: The Question**_

* * *

 _What happens in fifteen minutes?_

C019—Britain's SWAT team charged out of their armored van in Liverpool at the Albert Dock, bursting in front of five fishing boats managed by six fishermen who were all at gunpoint and arrested on the spot. Their cargo contained 3,500 kg cocaine worth £410 million and their sentence: _life imprisonment._ It was the same with three other spots in Canterbury where 900kg worth of cocaine and a dozen men were arrested by swat teams responding to the most reliable source they've ever had in that year. The last was in Las Iguanas Plymouth where 15 tons of cocaine worth £400million was seized, leaving one of the gang's second in command _dead_ and twenty-two others arrested after a fatal shootout that lasted for minutes. Not counting the marked spot in Southern region where the police uncovered a £280 million worth of cocaine and stash of money buried in a backyard inside tonne of cans guarded by a thirty-year-old man.

Sherlock would label these boring; drug busts were never areas he enjoyed. It was too common a case, too _human_ to even be inclined and too _pointless_ for illegal drugs were something mundane, something the world could not exist without—a part of the society that holds a delicate balance—something that will never disappear; and busting it was only like putting a stopper in an already teeming champagne and fighting an already defeated war.

 _After all, we're all just a bunch of addicts struggling with the drug of our choice._

So it was only ideal that he was charging the opposite end of the line, the line where the mastermind was likely to be hosting. Same line where he was likely to find his brother—dead? Fifteen minutes was the time limit—and fifteen minutes there he was running in the corridor with a gun at hand.

Mycroft wouldn't be happy if he was any later—but clambering the building from the stairwells of the fire exit where he saw clues of the troupe coming from, then infiltrating the CCTV station where he found the tenth floor to be the mark took two minutes of his time—by which he could just picture out his brother's captors, in their rage for getting thwarted once more, giving his only brother a time of his life. He remembered his time in Siberia when he was the one _captive_ and it was Mycroft doing the _infiltration._ Didn't Mycroft calmly sauntered in the room, sit idly by and watched as his younger brother was _beaten to pulp?_ And yes—Mycroft really did enjoy it, otherwise as a proper _brother—_ or any proper _John_ would do—he'd be raising fists or guns to stop the attacker for all the good it would do. But then the very idea of Mycroft raising his fists was laughable, and him raising a gun was even implausible for his older brother was not one to destroy his own cover just because of an _emotional outburst_ to somebody hurting his kin. Mycroft was not dumb to do that and Sherlock did understand. But when did he ever stop annoying his brother for not acting the _dumb brother_ everyone else has?

That was why he made it a point to come bursting in the room and beat whoever was beating his brother to show Mycroft an example. Unless they've already put a bullet in his head then Mycroft would have to satisfy himself wherever he is as Sherlock still beat the crap out of the enemy and maybe even send him to hell which was a better place.

 _He was just itching to beat somebody._ He just knew he was late.

He reached the tenth floor, run in the corridor—saw the door, raised his gun and without further thought kicked the door open and burst in in all arms— ready for his much-awaited assault and hoping beyond his cynic mind _that Mycroft only got a broken nose or arm— o_ nly to find the room empty—except for a body situated in the middle of the room in a chair with back towards him, his head leaning very still on his right, unmoving.

Dead.

Sherlock was beside him in an instant, his ears silencing everything. Mycroft was dead—wait—the detective had to double check as he put two fingers on his neck after. It was beating very strongly, even racing. The consulting detective stared at his heaving chest, and realized his brother was only knocked out with a slight wound on his head, he was tied up around the shoulder and waist, his wrists also tied up on the armchair that looked as though it had made a gap on his skin. His already injured hand looked worst but apart from that, he was alive. _Not even a broken nose._

 _"Why are you alive?"_ Sherlock breathed, his eyes glinting.

The man then turned his back on him to observe the surrounding—a table, drapes closed, no footmarks— blood on the floor? Sherlock was already on all fours at the floor with windows open when his backup came—in the form of John Watson, carrying a small white bag he was clutching tight on his hand. He looked tense, with that gun on his other hand as he came in.

"Sherlock…" he said in between breathes from apparent running, "Greg's just arrived—he called me and— _jesus!"_ the doctor was beside his patient in three strides and was checking his eyes, his pulse and all over his body for any gunshot— when he saw that there was no threatening damage, he proceeded in untying his wrists. "Mycroft? Mycroft? Geez… why didn't you wake him?"

"And risk him talking after his own abduction? I don't think so." Sherlock moved to the table and opened the drawers. "Best leave him at peace, he doesn't look good, does he?"

John was already checking on his swollen hand. It was already white as chalk, every vein seen with the reddening cove in the middle about to turn blue. John checked and timed his pulse again, then rounded behind him to untie the man's ropes then replied, "No."

"Then much better to keep him unaware."

 _"He could have concussion!"_

"He does have concussion, doctor."

John managed to remove all the ropes, put a hand on the man's shoulder and shake him gently. "Mycroft?"

"You really don't want to do that."

The doctor rounded in front of the man, unzipped the white pouch he had been carrying and procured a disinfectant which he avidly poured on a clean linen and onto the man's broken palm. The yellow liquid dissipated a little, but Mycroft remained immobile that made the doctor wonder if he would ever wake up.

"Findings?" Sherlock was talking from the corner of the room.

"Concussion and shot palm." John answered flatly while wrapping a clean bandaged on the open wound.

"Couldn't be more obvious."

"What about you?" the doctor shot him a look and found him still by the floor. "What's happened here? Why is no one here? You think they escaped? Sniffed we were coming?"

"Locked room mystery with no suspects…it's a game." Sherlock slowly stood up, eyes critically surveying the surrounding, then to his brother. "Something is not right."

"What?" John blinked expectantly at the man, then felt Mycroft stir on his touch. "Mycroft?" he held his shoulder steady, knowing the man was about to bend and fall on the floor, then watched as the British Government Head opened his eyes wide, and saw terror upon them—something which John had never seen before which caught him off-guard. "My…croft? It's alright hey, it's us? Mycroft, it's us…"

His intense eyes suddenly turned blank as recognition hit his face, his tensed shoulder sagging but the next thing, the older Holmes looked around listlessly, breathing heavily, making John put a firm hand on the man's shoulder to keep him from standing.

"He's panicking."

Sherlock was gazing at his brother from the table with a frown. "He shouldn't be."

"Well— _he is!_ He's already got an infection, his sweating a lot. And he's already warm. No—don't use that, it's useless, Mycroft." For the British Government Head had suddenly raised his bandaged hand with an equally petrified expression that finally made Sherlock to stride towards him and stop his swaying hand.

"Brother." He saw Mycroft's face was ashen, his lips dry, his eyes unable to hold his gaze as they locked with him; there he saw the same terror John had seen. He also noted his brother's strength despite his condition, as his right hand continued to pull away from his grasp, seemingly wanting to reach on to something— and Sherlock sucked his breath as he looked where Mycroft wanted to reach his injured hand—to that left arm covered by wrinkled fiber of his clothes as if it was intentionally _pulled up._ In haste, Sherlock worked on Mycroft's left arm and raised his sleeve—

And saw a very familiar point made by a needle.

Sherlock's eyes widened while John's mouth dropped open, both realizing its meaning.

 _"You big bag of trouble."_ The detective muttered finally.

"No…" John whispered while Mycroft dropped his head backwards in exhaustion. "Mycroft? We—we need to move him. Mycroft?" to Sherlock he bellowed, "The ambulance is downstairs, what's taking them so long?"

As if on cue, footsteps pounded on the corridor outside and in the next beat, Detective Inspector Lestrade came running in followed by five men, all geared up for battle, filling the room. The medic support was the last to come in.

"No trace of anyone inside or out," reported the inspector which only made Sherlock stare at him; then the D.I looked over Mycroft and saw him half conscious. "He alright?"

"He's drugged." John explained, helping the medic put the man in a stretcher. "We need to know what kind of drug it is. It could be deadly." The medical team wasted no time and disappeared from the room, leaving the D.I looking around till he found Sherlock still by the table. Only the two of them were left with some forensics.

"You found nothing?" Sherlock asked, surveying him."

"No, we've covered the perimeter but no sign of vehicle coming out of this place."

"Interesting."

"What do you make of it, Sherlock?" he asked, standing beside him. "They left no civilians harmed, they left no other trace, the cameras are being checked around, all their operations are prevented and your brother's alive… if you ask me we had a big win this round."

"Yes."

Lestrade chewed his lips for awhile and shrugged. " _So why the bloody hell you look so dissatisfied?"_

Sherlock turned to him, similarly puzzled. _"Why is he alive?"_

* * *

 _"It's a trick, it's only natural that it is. Otherwise there won't be so much question."_

"Yeah, you go about to answer your questions, what about my question?" John shook his head, "I know your bored, Sherlock and I know you're not happy that whoever did this to your brother escaped—"

 _"Oh please, it's a syndicate—"_

"Shutup and listen. The drug they found on him is called _Fentanyl_ , an opiate pain reliever typically given to patients who have undergone surgery or have severe pain or injury. It's a hundred times more potent that _mor—"_

 _"Morphine, I know."_ Replied Sherlock quietly and said no more, making John press on—

"It's a fact they did not give it to him for his injured hand, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted in distaste. _"Who'd be stupid to think that? No— your guesswork—they didn't kill him—they injected him with fentanyl thinking it'd do the job. Line of thought? To kill their hostage using drugs to make him suffer the consequence of his action because everybody knows death is the easiest way out."_

John sighed inwardly and put a hand on his face. They had been arguing about this ever since they rescued Mycroft. Sherlock had been very insistent on the case and nobody blames him. It was obvious he held grudge to whoever abducted his brother but as usual, the manner to which he presented it all was beyond anyone's expectations.

For one, he kept asking why his brother was alive. John would have smacked him if he was on sight— in the end, he just said through gritted teeth, "So what— they didn't have time to torture him that's why we found him with fentanyl pumping in his blood?"

 _"That's one conjecture. Not at all improbable—_

"But you still don't think it's just it, do you?" John said quietly now, remembering how he'd seen the consulting detective fly away on another vehicle when his brother was cringing inside the ambulance, almost unbreathing with oxygen mask on his face. "You think there's still more to this case than just getting him drugged, otherwise you wouldn't leave us—"

" _Where else are you going? Don't be a drama queen now John, you're just in the hospital."_

"Fentanyl of that amount is addicting, _Sherlock!_ And _deadly!_ Mycroft needed a CPR because his heart was too weak to pump after overexertion with the drug two hours ago! I think you should really come here in person—" John said on his mobile as he walked along the corridor of the hospital Mycroft was admitted in twelve hours ago. The doctor had been there with him since he arrived, talking to other medical experts who could give him opinion, found Mycroft delirious on more than one occasion, speaking nonstop about oysters and flags to the point of alarm, then the seizures, and the cardiac arrest at that. John had called Sherlock's mobile many times— after checking on his daughter, to update him because he just won't show up.

 _Investigating,_ he said. _While his brother was dying._

 _"It's a hospital."_ Came the brusque reply, _"Not my area of expertise. If I want to be of help to him I'd be on the ground, tracking his adversaries—which wait—I am doing exactly, thank you very much. I would be more useful here than stand there gawking at every turn of his pulse—"_

"Sherlock." John gritted his teeth, "Don't do this now. _He's dying."_

 _"Which is something I can never prevent now—you're the doctor, do something!"_ And the consulting detective hung his phone at that, making John curse under his breath and gripped his phone. Finding himself in the middle of doctors and nurses walking the corridor, the ex-army doctor proceeded to Mycroft's room which was easy to locate seeing as there were two tall Secret Service men standing on guard in front of it. Almost half a day and everyone's still very active. He heard Mycroft had awoken minutes ago while he was on the cafeteria and made a point to meet him.

Thus, at 2 o'clock in the morning, John Watson gave a short nod at the guards. He was allowed entrance after a knock. He was then surprised to find the British Government Head already sitting by his bed, white as his bedsheet with his whole right hand wrapped and into an arm sling. He was talking to his secretary whom John knew so well. She glanced at him and smiled briefly, before turning to Mycroft.

"Is that all, Mr. Holmes?"

He nodded and she took her shoulder bag from the chair, giving John another smile before disappearing behind the door, leaving the men staring at each other in the silence that followed. Mycroft seemed determined to be still, he was such a disciplined man.

"How's the hand?"

Mycroft tried to move his finger, only ending up sighing. He looked blankly at the doctor. "Like lead."

"You're not supposed to sit up, you know."

"The same with you not supposed to carry handguns in public, _you know._ "

John lowered his eyes to his right chest pocket where his handgun was hidden. He made a face and raised his eyes to the older Holmes. "Your guards didn't search me, you should do something about that."

"Seeing as you're the person in charge of me, I wouldn't blame them for their consideration."

John smiled. "You seem better now, if you can observe from the distance."

"My dear doctor… I could barely make your outline." Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed. "It was mere… inference." He opened his eyes, straight to John. "You haven't changed your clothes since we came here. I assumed you had no time to dispose of your weapon since you and Sherlock came for me. That was a trifle obvious."

"Well…" John cleared his throat and stepped near the bed. "If you're looking for Sherlock, he's still haywire outside and the hospital couldn't possibly contain him. Unless he's got a bullet somewhere around his body, but then even that wouldn't stop him moving about. He's like a hurricane, isn't he?"

Mycroft chuckled once and John just knew he had just become terribly sick for his smile looked so raw— _even genuine._ It made the doctor stood straight, on guard.

"Well," his voice was weak, all the wires attached to his chest, to his pulse now not looking ominous, "as a tradition… you would never see me and my brother in the same hospital room. Probably not even on each other's funeral." John slightly narrowed his eyes as Mycroft continued, "Not because we do not sympathize as everyone else does, John… but it would be too risky if a connection between us is made. Humans are vulnerable in terms of affections when inside hospitals; it is a sanctuary for pathos. I have my enemies as Sherlock has his and to establish a connection between us would be too colossal to both our beings. He would be in constant ransom if my enemies where to find I was his brother just because of a simple hospital visit."

 _That explained Magnussen._ Now John frowned at that. "And if his enemies find you are his?"

Mycroft smiled with meaning. "How many times have you been used as leverage against him since you knew him?" John was left to think of that and muttered another curse, Mycroft watching his every reaction and added, "Not that it would make a difference if you counted… you always loved the side effects of my brother."

"Fine." The doctor let out a sigh, "No hospital visits then. But Sherlock is still working on your case, he doesn't think it likely that a criminal organization like the Los Zetas would let you live after what you've done with all their men in London in less than eight hours. You started a war; you've got a price on your head."

"I've always got a price on my head." Mycroft muttered, undeterred. "No, my brother's just bidding his time… possibly disappointed his dragon got away."

"Aren't you?" John asked testily for it was not in Mycroft's character to have loose ends, "Maybe Sherlock's finishing it for you, before you get actually snuffed out."

Mycroft's smile was beginning to alarm John, "You don't think he's doing this for anyone save himself? Sherlock _is not_ a hero, John…he's a pirate, if I may point out. It's his fix to see all mysteries till the end, which means finding an empty room with me would be driving him on edge till the end of the week because the biggest mystery is: _why am I alive?_ "

John would have plenty of heated argument to that— _why can't they just be thankful they're alive? —_ but for once, his logic seemed to kick in before his emotion as he remembered how Sherlock described the Los Zetas as the most sadistic, most psychopathic criminal organization in Mexico and how he was most convinced all through out that Mycroft was _dead_. There should be no chance of that—not with billions of drugs money gone. So why?

He eyed the older Holmes with some regard and went on, _"_ What happened back there, Mycroft?"

The man looked away blankly, onto the opposite wall of his bed.

"I would give you an answer… but I'd like my audience to be counted just and not have anyone hung about… _unnoticed._ Am I right… Sherlock?"

John's head perked in attention and shot the older Holmes a look. Following his eyes quickly, he looked at the opposite wall where—oh where the walls rotated after a short pause—and revealed none other than Sherlock Holmes in his dark suit, sitting cross legged on the available chair, his mobile phone on the table.

John stared at him in disbelief. "You…"

"We've been over this, John." Sherlock said quietly, his eyes intensely transfixed at his older brother. "Revolving walls, hospital room—the only room. You've not forgotten that case, have you?"

John looked around the room and realized— _this was the same room_ _Culverton Smith_ had used back then. He sighed out loud as he now saw the same exterior—except for the new paint, new portrait on the wall, new curtain—everything else was the same. How could he have missed that?

"Lack of observation." Sherlock answered as if reading his thoughts and leaning his head on the left, eyes to Mycroft, "So do tell, _brother._ What happened back there?"

"You _cock!"_ John began shrilly as he shot a demented look at his flat mate, " _You—you've been here this whole time and you just left me alone to look after your dying brother? And you're just sitting there? I thought you were on the case—"_

"I am on the case," Sherlock glanced at him with a shrug, "Undercover, otherwise I wouldn't know if he's still himself or working for others, maybe even coerced."

"Still himself—?" the doctor looked from one Holmes to the other, "You—why— _you're suspecting your own brother?"_

Mycroft raised his chin with an eyebrow up but didn't say anything. Sherlock locked gaze with him and replied—

"Of course I did. Locked room mystery, no sign of the enemy, room cleaned out whole and the only person left behind is _the victim._ You shouldn't get easily fooled. Even _Cluedo_ has worst clues."

 _"It's Mycroft!"_

"Never make an exception, John, _an exception disproves the rule; when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ The mystery of his survival till now has been bothering me since the beginning, ergo that he has something to do with it—deal, compliance, agreement name it—was never out of question. My brother is an official government worker, it was always up to him to make moves for the country with his own consent, he is _The Government._ Unless he was _compromised."_

John gaped at the detective, and then looked at the older Holmes whose whole expression had taken a turn and was now looking a bit more like himself with the creased on his forehead, his raised right eyebrow and his ever-pursed lips.

"You could have just asked, you know." Mycroft breathed in the end, leaning back on his pillow and closing his eyes. "For your information I did not make any unnecessary treaties that concerns the government. Los Zetas are never that _prim_ to even meet our exceeded expectations. They are just barbarians who're after the money. They are like _pirates_." He opened his eyes and stared directly at his brother who scowled at him. "They are only after the loot… which goes without saying… they are after a hidden treasure."

Sherlock and John did not say anything and Mycroft was forced to continue.

"A literal hidden treasure."

Their faces broke into different expressions—John's eyes and mouth widened while Sherlock frowned.

 _"Treasure? Like gold treasure?"_ was the doctor's—

"That's just absurd, but not unheard of." Was of Sherlock—

Mycroft nodded once, "They could not hope to decode the detail of its whereabouts, however, and took me in their confidence to find it. They were much impressed by my identification of their smuggles the first time—thus answers your question of how _I have survived._ Even until now."

Sherlock's eyes glinted in understanding as if his puzzle word was getting filled one by one.

"Hang on…" comprehension struck John, "that means you're the only person who knows the treasure's whereabouts this Zeta members are looking for?"

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow in a very offhand manner. "I must admit, it did not take any of my ability to identify the code, however, that I did not share this intelligence to them is something they'd be very concerned with and would be most eager to make contact once more. Isn't that why you've decided to wait for the right moment, in case they manage to reach me in this level of security?" he looked shrewdly at his younger brother who reached for his phone and began typing. " _Caring,_ brother… I do not advise it still—"

"An organization like that would be willing to take in a whole hospital if necessary, you know." Sherlock cut him off with an impassive face. "I wasn't just here for you."

"Of course." Mycroft smiled sardonically, leaving the doctor to look once again from one Holmes to another and shake his head.

"So you're both telling me this organization can attack us any moment? _And what are we doing about it?"_

"I've had my secretary cover the perimeter." The older Holmes offered, still much unmoved.

"And my network scattered about places where Los Zetas are prime. That's how I got your location from Wiggins." Sherlock noted with a nod to Mycroft, "Showed him the number you used and he was able to identify its owner working in Park Plaza Hotel. He was a patron. Which leaves the final question— _where is this treasure?"_

Mycroft's eyes gleamed. "You're never one to excite yourself over treasures, brothermine… remember the Pearl of Borgias? You were never that inclined."

"I'm hunting down _pirates._ " Sherlock smirks, "Why wouldn't I be inclined?"

* * *

 _"Cardiff?"_ John muttered in disbelief as now he and Sherlock were in a helicopter, with Mycroft secretary's arrangement, and headed straight to Wales, in Cardiff which they would be reaching in exactly half an hour. "Why would they be leaving behind their treasure in Cardiff?"

"Plenty of grounds to dig." Sherlock said much solemnly. "There are drug cartels in Cardiff, Newport. That's what I gathered from the intelligence of the Holdcroft operation. Seems likely this is the time El Pla Za's surrounding Britain."

"Mycroft said he killed his own brother."

"Well," a grin so mysterious appeared on Sherlock's face. Then seeing his best friend's raised eyebrow, he wiped it off and continued, "Vendetta is never uncommon to drug cartels, John. Especially with a large organization as the Zetas who'd become victims of their own bloodlines and division. They made many enemies after many split ups and they wage war on everybody trying to become the biggest drug trafficking cartel in Mexico. This has led to the three main cartels - the Family, the Gulf Cartel and the Sinaloa Cartel - joining forces to eliminate the Zetas and so far succeeding. You cannot blame El Plaza for fleeing as far as Europe, and neither his brother. That he killed his brother for fortune… is a mindset of a real dealer."

"Yeah, and now he's after to kill your brother, that sounded just about right to you?"

"He needs Mycroft. He wouldn't kill him." Sherlock looked outside the window, "Mycroft has made himself _indispensable_ again even to known enemies. Even after finding his treasure I doubt El Plaza would waste such a talent." He looked up to find the doctor staring at him in awe and had to explain, "Human trafficking is also something _not_ unheard of. Unique people, brilliant people, John… extraordinary people tend to disappear because of dark organizations like this. With Mycroft's talent he'd be an instant hit as a codebreaker or a maker of one as long as they overlook his sarcasm. It so happens the government got him before anyone can. Rather, _he got the government."_

"But you're not gonna let it happen to your own brother, are you?" John was frowning heavily now. "This human trafficking?"

"Mycroft shouldn't tempt me. Which is always."

"He's going to be fine there in the hospital?"

"Greg's on it. What else could pass through the man? And the Secret Service is in their full alert until we bag our target. Even the MOD was already alerted."

"So why are you interested with this treasure?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed once more as it fell to the doctor. "Good question. This treasure Mycroft's mentioned could not be anything save the _Montezuma treasure._ It is the only thing you can connect with a drug organization and Mexico after all." When his best friend remained looking blank, the detective pressed on, " _The Treasure Drug!_ Golden treasure with traces of cannabis and opium, John. Dating back 2,400 years, about fierce nomads—Aztecs whose exploits and drug fueled rituals chronicled by Herodotus. There are even facts that the Aztecs included opium to make their statues, stones and cups, even gold _with opium._ So anyone who'd see them will be entranced, will almost immediately fall prey to its effects. I do not know if the drug statues or cups still have the effect it had 2000 years ago, but if you are willing to betray your brother and hide it, even kill a brother for it, I must say that effects are still lasting."

"So you're telling me…" John said abruptly, "that you are after this _treasure…_ because it's made of _drug?!"_

Sherlock gaped, then retorted— _"What—no!"_

But the consulting detective was saved from the doctor's probing when his phone rang once and he answered almost eagerly. "What?"

John looked outside the window and saw Bristol. They've been on air for half an hour. Then he heard that question that sent chills to his skin—

 _"Mycroft disappeared?"_ Sherlock's voice rang in the air, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Or escaped?"

 _Escaped?_

* * *

A puff of smoke encircled the night air around a man wearing a thick layer of coat over his dark, striped suit, a Stetson buffalo hat, dark jeans and thick boots, and overly golden chains and rings. El Pla Za was on his best attire, ready to aboard his _jet plane_ that had been on schedule since the beginning.

"It isn't strange at all," he said in his husky Mexican accent, his eyes gleaming at the light of his cigar, "that we find ourselves in the same boat… in this case I'd say _same plane,_ isn't that right, _Mr. Holmes?"_

Mycroft Holmes emerged from the shadows behind him, wearing his adorned thick dark overcoat over his three-piece suit, with the arm sling, carrying an umbrella with his good hand and a proper neck tie this time. His face remained pale even with the lights from the airway, and looking very livid. His whole expression was stern as he walked slowly towards the man and stood beside him, the nature of their founded mutual understanding hidden in the fifteen minutes that elapsed—

 _"You are a man of code, a man of dignity," El Pla Za whispered to him as his wrists were tied on the chair, and his sleeve raised up to his elbow, "And once you say that you do not plan to work with me, I believe you. Todos son la misma raza. But even you would not be able to resist this—"_

 _An injection was raised in the air with red tint liquid of some kind, making Mycroft grit his teeth as it was slowly stabbed to his skin, freely entering his system. The effect was instantaneous as his head whirled— in the middle of it all was the voice that invaded the deepest part of his mind—_

 _"You have never tried any of this kind, I know it. Your smart mind would not allow you, which makes you even more vulnerable to its effects. La primera. But this is no ordinary drug, William. This will make you run… run to it like any madman… and you'd do anything for it, but Britain has no supply of this. Not as stronger. So you come to me. You come to me and we can work this together. I know it, ya sabes donde encontrarme."_

 _What happens in fifteen minutes?_

Mycroft raised his eyes to the black jet with the insignia of Mexico.

Then to the man beside him who raised a packet of what the older Holmes recognized as the same sachet he'd find beside his brother but instead of repulsion, Mycroft only recognized elation as he took the bag quickly. El Pla Za gave him a side glance, a grin forming in under his bushy mustache.

Mycroft hid the packet inside his pocket and took the first step towards the plane.

 _"New Mexico is the place. Let's go."_

The Mexican could not help chuckling as he threw his cigar on the ground and followed.

"Holmes, vamos, chico grande."

* * *

 ***ToBeContinued***

* * *

 _Todos son la misma raza - you are the same kind_

 _La primera - first taste_

 _ya sabes donde encontrarme- you know where to find me_

 _vamos, chico grande_ \- let's go big boy

* * *

 ** _A/N: Mycroft's in the greatest war of his time!_**

 ** _Not lose himself!_**

 ** _See you in 2018!_**

 ** _HAPPY NEW YEAR!_**

 **Thanks for reading! ^_^**

 **~W.G~**


	6. The Brothers' War

***Brother's Opium War***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 _Happy January! I will miss writing Sherlock!_

 _Please enjoy the not so the-end!_

 **Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

 _ **Six: The Brothers' War**_

 **PART I- MYCROFT**

* * *

Mycroft surveyed the streets from a hotel room's window and from his view, saw speeding vehicles of trucks and cars in the steaming granite road _._ Moving cars bustling under the hot beam of New Mexico's bright sky that was rare in London, and the unending picture of an open highway. Tall lamps were on every few meters, wire barricades separating the four lanes where traffic does not seem to be a problem. Beside the hotel, in front of his window, was a Cattleman's steak house with a long line of brown roof viewable from the second floor, red painted wall and wood horses and carriage in front, attracting _cowboys_ in the saloon _._

 _Such was New Mexico._

Beyond everything were sand, shrubs, rock formations in the half and thorn bush desert leading to the scenic blue sky of scattered clouds and shapeless mountain. Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he raised it towards the endless view of the blue sky, seemingly coaxing him out of the nightmare he plunged himself in. _Now that was poetic._ But for a man whose time was about to come, he could afford being poetic. He turned himself away from the singular window, casting his eyes onto the single unit room.

It was small, could be the size of his house's multimedia room, but elegant for a two-story building hotel. A double bed with a large painting of the same mountain view outside was above the headboard, with two comfortable couches right at the foot of it too. Mycroft was never selective with shabby rooms; he's had Baker Street to compete with.

He found El Plaza in one of the couches, sipping red wine quietly and staring at the blank television screen where Mycroft could see their reflection. El Plaza, it seemed, had been watching him. Mycroft looked away onto his right arm where he apparently had removed the sling since they arrived an hour ago. He was feeling against it anyway; he didn't need any arm protection, although the damage to his muscles was such he was unable to flex his hand to his wrist. No, he didn't need the arm sling as it wouldn't make any difference to the syndicate around him, he does not intend for them to pity him by wearing the handicap. He brushed the wrinkle on his right cuff and let his able hand fall mechanically to his pocket.

He dug deep into his pocket and found the packet still there. He didn't take out his hand, thinking… _thinking…_

He was taken out of his stupor when El Plaza spoke.

"Is this what you would call, in my brother's own mind… the land of the Aztec?"

Mycroft didn't even raise his head; the carpet floor seemed observable to him now after a minute of staring into space.

"It is his code." he answered quietly, straight to point, "It is natural that we are led here."

El Plaza grunted. "In USA." It was said with the distaste of a Mexican tongue, "We brothers hate this country. The border, the wall… the people. All the places and this wretched country." He spat on the floor.

Mycroft looked up this time, eyes indifferent. "The more reason he would put it here as you recall… _Enemy of my enemy is my friend."_

A demented gleam appeared on the Mexican's face and it lingered for a minute, before he turned attention at the British man who was standing very still with his back on the window. A grimace, much more than a smile was plastered on his face.

"How did you get us here again, compadre?" he said, still sounding much amused when Mycroft remembers explaining it to him en route inside the jet plane. His patience was getting tried but he recited all the same.

 _5.44770+, Veracruz_

Quite unusual to be called a code as it does not follow any certain pattern. No wonder the other codebreakers the Zetas abducted had a terrible time. It was unique and with much signature of its maker whom they probably had no background whatsoever. Mycroft began.

"You no doubt searched everywhere in Veracruz, Mexico."

"It is the only obvious location."

"But why bother with the closes in proximity when you know your brother expected you to pillage the whole place? It does not make sense." Mycroft frowned, then accepted the idea that El Plaza was not as smart as his first impression, or the man had been desperate—

"I got impatient." El Plaza replied with a dark look. "I might with you."

If it was possible to raise his eyebrows even higher, Mycroft Holmes managed it to a degree. El Pla Za dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand and urge him to continue. Mycroft stood straight and put both hands inside his pocket conversationally.

"You showed me the photo of your code and with my not-so-considerable talent, I _saw everything others did not._ I noticed his dead hand near the paper, possibly when he had just been killed—in minutes I believe— and noticed a marking at the back of his hand, a tattoo of a tail of a snake. The tattoo detail is very precise, it was carved using a group of five #12 diameter extra tight round liner and with super long taper. I'm not much of a tattoo fanatic but I am well versed. Anyway, the snake was a tiny detail, barely visible and snakes are common a sign when I remember how you confessed you and your brother's patriotism to the Aztec legend. The _eagle carrying a snake, on the top of a nopal._ "

"And he chose New Mexico because of the symbols _?"_ El Plaza grumbled, taking his wine in one gulp and eyeing his companion from the blank tv screen. "Even I would look at New Mexico without his symbolism."

"But you didn't." Mycroft observed with a hint of cynicism, "Veracruz was a useful clue as it is a useful distraction. 5.44770+ would not make a proper coordinate without it. The eagle, snake and nopal are known symbol for Mexico, it is even found in your international identity—your flag. And speaking of flags, which country could respond to the beginning of 5 and 4? We are speaking of your brother whose mental state, as you said, a genius, not the same of others which proves that making his own codes was much exciting than using other means of cryptograms; therefore, I could only think, in his uniqueness that 5.4 has something to do with the main country he's been hiding, if he wants to avoid your invasion. Of flags, a country with visible 5.4—"

"United States." El Plaza interrupted, now looking less amused at his deceased brother's wit.

"No other flag in the world could produce such combination except the United States with its 50 stars." Mycroft closed his eyes and saw his own brother nagging at one corner of his brain because this sort of game was his to play. He shook his head and dismissed the thought. "But 5.4… look at the American flag and there you'll find, so audaciously the alignment of the stars that are all referring to a particular _state_ or so the country boasted. Five in the first alignment, four in the second and this pattern is repeated till it completed the fifty. Get this key and your puzzle is solved because the rest shall follow—the number 47. We speak of the stars and their states—which state of America was hailed as its 47th? That's _New Mexico._ "

Mycroft found El Plaza watching him in the silence that fell and had no qualms in returning the gaze.

"70+ of course, refers to the particular location inside New Mexico… _Las Cruces, The City of the Crosses;_ Veracruz was just a distraction but it had its uses." Mycroft looked away. "So we find ourselves here in Las Cruces, New Mexico, taking the road to the _Aztec Drive_ which is what they call the street… it's all actually _quite telling._ A ten-minute ride from this point. The rest we can make a simple speculation for your brother's enthusiasm with the Aztecs… I wondered why you didn't come here in the first place."

"He was playing being smart." El Plaza raised a bushy eyebrow as he poured himself another drink. "And yet at the end of the day he is still dead. And I still win… thanks to you, compadre." He raised his wine at the British man who gave him a levelled look.

"We are not, sorry to say, _compadre."_

"You're still alive, so I say we are." The Mexican drank his glass of wine in one take and stood up gingerly, his large, calloused hands full of rings pointing towards Mycroft. "We stay for another hour, I have my men round the perimeter of Aztec Drive and we'll leave once they secure the route to retrieve my gold. You will stay here and remember how well you will be guarded."

"I'm not a prisoner, I hope?" he didn't really care what he was up to this point.

"No," El Plaza answered as he crossed the room towards the hotel door, "But I am a protective man of his possessions. Especially if said possession caused him two billion in a single night." He opened the door where two large guards in dark suit stood, "I already called for the meal to be brought in so there is no reason for you to go anywhere. At all." He left a jarring smile and closed the door, leaving the British Government Head staring back towards the window, to the street below where three more men were on standby. Not that he thought of escaping in the first place. What he was thinking, however was…

Just as his hand fell right inside his pocket again, he heard a knock on the door, possibly the ordered breakfast, heard it open from the outside by one of the guard's outstretched hand, and saw a hotel servant in red uniform and cap enter, pushing an open cart with its goods. Mycroft let go of the packet of drug in his clutch as he saw the servant draw near the table. The door was closed.

"Would there be anything else, sir?" the man looked up at him.

It was his large nose that interested Mycroft first as he leaned on the wall, slightly disconcerted.

"If you prefer a different main dish, we have the menu card, sir. A variety of English cuisine is included on the list, with equitable desserts, should I complement you with scone and tea? Or do you prefer cakes?"

Mycroft need not question it as he shook his head as a sign that it was _enough. "Sherlock."_

A pause, and the servant stood straight, his bent back from pushing the cart revealing his true height, his smile almost splitting his face, the gleam in his eyes sharp and cutting.

 _"Hey, bro."_

Mycroft stared at him with the same cutting stare that was both familiar to them. In cold tone, he responded.

"You figured it out?"

"I think you're losing you're touch, it wasn't much of giveaway."

"How did you know this place?"

"You know me— always the party crasher. You were never one to invite me, brother." the younger Holmes said mockingly as he removed his fake nose and drop it on the floor. Such carelessness it made Mycroft frown again as Sherlock went on, "I came to save the damsel in distress. Classic story and with _treasure_ in the end, it's a making of fairy tale." He winked at his brother and removed his red cap and threw it across the room. "Thought that wouldn't fool you but I was hoping you'd be too overdosed to notice anything."

"Overdosed." Mycroft blinked several times, but then understood his brother completely and unconsciously touched the pocket of his coat, "You don't mean… Oh, Sherlock… _I am above you._ Such temptation only works for adrenalized being _meaning you_ … Lethargy has always been a fault of mine."

"Yet you still keep it?" Sherlock looked pointedly at Mycroft's pocket as he rounded on the couch between them and eyed his brother suspiciously to which Mycroft managed a small smile.

"You really think I'd have the same reaction as you with drugs? Sherlock, if this can heighten your thought processes… _imagine what it could do to me?_ I who's only a brain?" He watched his younger brother closed the distance between them till they were face to face. "Even I know a real ghost when faced with one."

Sherlock gave the most sardonic smile. "Really?"

Mycroft looked down his right hand and closed it into a tight fist. _"Of course."_

"Shall we leave this place then?"

"Yes, but where's John—?"

The door banged open and there was John, in his army uniform carrying what looked like a gun type, hand grenade around his shoulder, and a frenzied, military expression and stance. Behind him the two guards, twice as large as he, were knocked out on the floor, rings of alarm were already setting chaos in the whole vicinity.

"Alright girls, we've got the perimeter breached, all civilians' safety out, code red we have to move fast, are we clear?"

Sherlock was grinning and this time he was already wearing his favourite dark, thick coat with an eyepatch on his right eye. He looked ridiculous.

"Come on then, brother dear, we're going to deliver you back to the Queen." He saluted.

"The car won't start!" shouted the voice of John in urgency.

Mycroft had ceased looking at the duo ever since he noted the eyepatch and was staring at his right hand with focus. It was still tightly closed. Slowly, he opened it and found it _unblemished_. His gunshot wound was gone. He closed his eyes as he was hit by sudden realization of this absurd reality and shook his head.

"Come on, brother dear." Goaded Sherlock from somewhere but then John had set off his hand grenade and blew the wall away with a loud explosion, that which did not faze Mycroft who then felt the automatic sprinkler wash down on them from above. _"Big brother, come on!"_

 _"Move it, Mycroft!"_ he sounded so desperate. Clearly unlike the _real one._

Mycroft felt the cold water on his face, felt his whole body get damp and closed his eyes to welcome its coolness. All the noise had died out and all he felt was pain and cold.

 _Good… that was good… for it could only mean…_

He first noted his shivering body when his eyes flew open. Blurred sight met his erratic pupils and it took him awhile to realize he was breathing too hard, his stomach was aching at the constant pump of air. Then came the pain; all cells in his body was on fire—he was profusely sweating, he could feel both coldness of his skin and heat underneath—

In his blurred vision, he saw an outline of a man blowing on his cigar. He was seated right across him with legs crossed, his eyes glinting darkly in that scarred face as the puff of smoke engulf his background.

"I should not have given you a whole packet." He sounded anything but regrettable, "I thought you'd have control. It's in your aura, see. It was a dosage for each meal, regularly taken and for your injured hand. You emptied everything. I am very intrigue at what you are seeing in your head. But this cannot keep up or you'll be no use to me. A millimeter a day before your heart stops, eh?"

 _Heart… what was it about hearts…?_

 _Oh yes. He doesn't have one._

Then what… pray tell… was that organ pumping so powerfully and rapidly to the point of pain right there on his chest? Like some sort of angry beehive knocking, rocketing, _pounding to be free?_

Sherlock's face was there before he could think, and his brother was sitting on his sofa, hands clasped together, looking thoughtful and pensive. Mycroft noticed his scarf and raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock—"

"You know what, brothermine? I think I shall marry Mrs. Hudson to annoy you." Mycroft's lips curled and thinned till Sherlock opened his hand with a triumphant smile, and pointed at his ring. "Oh, that's right. I already did."

"Sherlock." Mycroft cleared his throat before he could have any other ideas and raised the umbrella on his right hand and pointed at him. "Your scarf's pink."

Before Mycroft knew it, he clicked the gun on his umbrella and shoot the opposite wall, barely missing his brother who did not look faze and continued smiling at him with his perfect teeth. The next thing, ballistic gun shots came out from _everywhere_ , like overexcited pair machine gun rattling, shooting the wall Sherlock loved to put bullets on. Ten holes, twenty holes till two dozen of bullet holes continued cracking the 221B wall Mycroft knew was bound to happen one day.

And still, Sherlock was there, seated quietly with no damage whatsoever. Mycroft gave him a disquieting look, knowing that what was happening was of his brother's own doing and no other people could be blamed for it.

"Strange as it is, brothermine," Mycroft went on with some urgency as the gunshots continued showering them. "I don't want to see a shadow of you at that location. It's a _war_ out there… _there'll be dead bodies."_

 _"There are dead bodies."_

"It's dangerous, Sherlock!"

"Thank you for the invite but I prefer crashing in."

"Their crashing the place." John was beside Sherlock, nodding his head, looking so spirited he looked five times younger.

Mycroft clutched his umbrella. "You don't understand—this war—"

"What is it good for?" Sherlock turned to John who shrugged.

"Absolutely nothing."

 _"Listen!"_ Mycroft hissed as if he was out of breath, like he was out of time. He looked at his hand and found blood there—there was a fresh new hole on his hand and he could see through it to his shoes. "Both of you—this war cannot be prevented! _I made it!_ "

"What makes you so righteous to start it?" Sherlock's deep voice sounded so grave.

"A man who knows how to control his pieces absolutely has every right." Mycroft said sternly, feeling his ground shook and his whole body shiver, but it did not lessen the coldness in his voice, "And knowledge, precisely that, can both start and end it, so do not question my authority again, Sherlock, _not when I know the casualties I make."_

There was no reply but who minds? He was busy sorting his black folders of known enemies on his file cabinet, one particularly he stopped to look at was a pale old man with a sharp looking pointed face, unhappy sort of mouth, thin spectacles and his cold, calculating, dead stare. The master of _Appledore._ Mycroft browsed through the file as he was on the letter _M_ and he was yet again reminded how psychopaths tend to have this consonant letter. He raised an eyebrow at the pointless estimation and turned around his table, exactly as his office door burst open and the delicate figure of Lady Elizabeth Smallwood came stomping in, looking terribly vexed and even possessed.

"You've been assaulted, I observed." Mycroft said silently as he put his folder down and sat behind the table. From the corner of his eyes he saw the Lady go straight for the mirror with a basin and water only available at the corner of the room and began washing her face with a handkerchief she was dipping on it.

"I'm going to murder him." She said with some emotions as she looked up at the mirror and stood straight.

 _"I don't doubt it. But no."_ Mycroft looked up at her and put both hands on each side of his chair. "No one's going to get murdered by anyone when he is under my care."

"You know who I'm speaking of?" she asked with some hint of surprise.

"His stench came in with you. You must've gone _very close._ And I thought it was a mere probing." Mycroft smiled sarcastically, earning him a glare. "Of course, I would know. _I ought to._ He was scheduled for the Cabinet meeting." He watched as she strode towards his table and sat on the opposite chair looking fiery.

"You should have been there."

"He knew _I should have been_ that's why he answered the summon. When he realized I wasn't, he opted to bully you. But I don't think I can be bullied… _not in that way_."

"He's been after you for months, who knows what he's already found out?"

"Whatever it would be, I assure you it would never be my _doing._ " Mycroft curled his lips and sighed, eyes transfixed on her. "It would be _yours."_ When she looked back at him, affronted, he went on, "You've been to 221B. Of course, I know. I have it heavily monitored ever since John Watson's wedding. I need warning when Sherlock's idea of afternoon tea involves ransacking my fridge or sleeping in his drag _on my bed._ Yes, _just to annoy me._ "

She glared still, then took poise to calm herself. "I'm sorry for involving you further, Mycroft but he's the only one—"

"Please." the British Government Head raised a hand, "That's Sherlock's expertise. _Getting involve."_

"Your security did not stop me when I arrived at 221B, so I thought you approve of hiring him."

"I have no question to the nature of the job, you probably wanted the letters retrieve. My concern lies on Sherlock's ability to cause trouble. Magnussen would have found the connection between us anyway but nothing Sherlock wasn't known of publicly could affect me. That he is a sleuth? A fake detective? _A con artist? An addict?_ All of those mean nothing to me so blackmail is out of question. I don't want to raise your hopes up, Alicia, but with Sherlock in on this, expect things to escalate to _war."_

"Do you not plan to get involve?" her curiosity of his concern to his younger brother was apparent. Mycroft assessed the context of the question and blinked.

"Naturally, I already am. But it's been a habit of mine to cause war, but not fight it. Let other elements collide as we silently sit by. Have you never heard of the Seven Week's War? Austro-Prussian War also called— _the Brothers War_ of 1866 _._ Russia's role back then was to have Germany, France and Austria clash before seizing glory—a perfect idea for the war rule _to subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill._ Have your enemies fight each other. It's General Sun Tzu's strategy I typically apply on daily basis."

"No blood on your hand?"

"Unnecessary."

"So you are going to let your brother handle the matter?"

"My dear Lady," Mycroft's eyebrows creased, " _Whoever said I'm going to let him do anything?"_

 _Because he's just going to jump in on his own accord, with jet planes and car crashing style._

Did the car just crashed?

"You're going to get used to it." Said the gruff voice Mycroft had been so familiar now. It was the constant voice at the back of his head, which had found its roots he cannot know when. Amusingly, the same voice was making him feel both nauseous and troubled at the same time. He tried to reach for his dried throat but found his right hand unmoving. And he was lying on his left hand that had gone so terribly numb. All he could feel now was how tired his body was from exertions he could not recall.

 _"What have you done?!"_ the same Mexican gruff voice was shouting too close on his ear. Was it the background of Sherlock's wall again with that terrible sound of his gun? A war had happened, that was apparent, but the unusual nagging of his subconscious that something dangerous was happening was setting his teeth on edge… but he has been shivering since the beginning! Why won't people stop screaming at him?

 _"JOHN!"_

Why won't someone stop Sherlock screaming that name? Then Mycroft doubled back— _and prayed_ aloud _not_ to hear his name to be shouted in the same strained tone— over his dead body— but then, of course, Sherlock _wouldn't._ That would put too much strain in their already heated relationship.

 _"I will kill all of you! Starting with… you!"_

Then a gun— why won't someone stop pointing a gun on his head? Pray do listen—! _Go for the heart!_

"It's too late… it's already irreversible." Sherlock had never sounded so high, _on the edge,_ and villainous till the end. "Mycroft's already won… there's nothing you could do about it. _He's won."_

A pounding on his head, urging him to stop the shivering. El Pla Za was a hateful sight. That was _new._ He had never hated anyone before. _Still the gun…_

Then Mycroft blinked. Did Sherlock say he's already _won?_

 _Why does his younger brother sound so surprise?!_

* * *

 **PART II- SHERLOCK**

* * *

In a nutshell, Sherlock did not waste time as he contacted Lady Smallwood on the small matter of extending her power to authorities allowing a small helicopter to make a roundtrip to the Department of Defense military base, borrow a single jet plane and to fly them off to _New Mexico._ It would have taken considerable amount of approval with Mycroft gone and it would have been too late had Sherlock not mention the possibility of losing Britain's powerhead and the casual addition of his photo with the _little prince_ he helped the Secret Service retrieve from a drug den not so long ago with _Mycroft_.

He did take a photo while he carried the young man after all, just a bit of souvenir to annoy his brother with. Photos and their uses. But that helped hasten the matters so feeling a bit like Irene, but not too brightly about it, he took the phone call from the pilot once they were on their way to the New Mexico, informing him it was someone from Buckingham Palace.

 _"I don't think your brother would have approved of such low attack."_ Said Harry Whatsis on the phone while Sherlock looked over the view of the Atlantic, its vastness sucking him to go to his mind palace for the intricate detail his brother had taken, stopping himself on time, before replying darkly—

"He's never approved of me on anything and since he's not around because of you and your mates, you might as well send the whole barracks you have to help me get him back. _There's a war there."_

 _"Do you not understand how this can turn into an international affair?"_

"It _is_ an international affair, get your head on it already." Sherlock snapped, "Now you either go to my good side or the other because if anything else happens to my brother I'll hold you personally responsible."

There was a long pause, and the consulting detective heard the man sigh in defeat.

 _"I will send all the help you need—"_

And that's all Sherlock needed to hear before hanging up and throwing the phone on the empty seat across him. He fell silent for a while, his mind palace turning abruptly to different conclusions, then casted his eyes to his best friend who was sitting across him with a newspaper on his hand. They were both clad in black and appropriately _armed._

He found John Watson looking at him meaningfully and knew he had to answer questions.

"You said there's a war." John began when Sherlock paid him his whole attention.

"There is. It just won't happen on a larger scale but definitely will."

"And Mycroft's headed to New Mexico why?"

"It's where the treasure is."

"He falsely gave us a location to what— _not get gold, jesus, he's not one for it is he? Does he even have a plan?"_

Sherlock chewed on his lips, his eyes darting here and there. He was sure John was reading his reactions to prepare any alarmed answer and couldn't find any other way not to _alarm him_ because he should be. Besides, Sherlock could already see the _soldier_ showing on him already. Moments like this Sherlock was glad Mike Stanford did not offer to be his flat mate. _He was glad enough alright._

The consulting detective produced his own cellphone and showed it to the ex-army doctor who immediately transferred seats opposite him and took the phone.

"I had one of my network infiltrate Mycroft's house just now—"

 _"That's burglary—"_

"— with consent. He sent me all the things he found that would be useful and sent me this—"

"Okay so uh—a picture of a sticky note?" John sounded foolish for pointing out the obvious, so he earned a stupid glare for that, he compensated quickly as he added, "There's writing—Mycroft's handwriting then? Is this how you found his location?"

Sherlock pressed his eyes in exasperation, "You really think I wouldn't spend half my day putting tracking devices on my newly drugged-hazed brother's clothing?"

"You spent your day hiding behind his wall in the hospital but at least you're learning to babysit." John muttered, "Hang on, seven-weeks war? He wrote Seven? Sherlock— _explain._ It's not like I can hear your thoughts as you brothers could."

Sherlock obliged with eyes glinting—

 _"The Austro-Prussian War—_ mostly about Germany and Austria trying to inflict casualties to one another—however the actual action is not the main thing. Mycroft never likes violence, he is a strategist, the man on the table, _the general,_ so even when he memorized this by heart it would be of no use to him so which angle should I look for? Naturally I'd have to think the same with my brother, his interest in the background power affecting the entirety without having to be seen. It led me to two words."

John let the dramatic pause to ring, before showing an expression that questioned the _what._

Sherlock's voice was melodramatic as ever. _"Sun Tzu."_

"To you too." John sat straight with a frown.

"It's a name." Sherlock snapped impatiently, "The name of the Chinese general that authored the war book _The Art of War._ He included several advices on how to win war which includes the phrase, _to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill._ Technically it's just as in Seven Wars where Russia was on the sideline, letting their spies cause stir between the warring states and watch them crumble without using a single ammunition. Germany and Austria pulverizing each other for seven weeks—"

"So, you're telling me Mycroft went to New Mexico to have a seven weeks war? Whose army is he using?" Then as if comprehending, the doctor's eyes went large, "Don't tell me he's going to get the USA and Mexico into—"

"That would be interesting, but no." Sherlock took his phone and used it to view Mycroft's tracer. "I don't think my brother's up to that kind of international warfare. Nope, he's going to end this, but not with anyone's army. _Enemies against enemies,_ remember? You clearly don't. Who else would the be the greatest enemy of the Zetas? It's definitely not the police."

John's eyes flickered again. "You don't say…"

"Yes." Sherlock, "The cartels that separated from the main Zeta—the Family, the Gulf and the Sinaloa—which all had the same aim to take down the Zetas. I don't think Mycroft missed that. It's been a complete turn of the clock since then, I'm sure my brother has done a lot. Imagine sending solid information to these cartels about this _huge gold made of opium_ to be seized by a Zeta leader? It's Christmas in the middle of sandstorm. Mycroft is literally bringing the war _to them._ "

The ex-army doctor could not hide that he was much impress by the brothers, but when he turned to the consulting detective, Sherlock knew his next question and this was, above everything, the action where they were _needed._

"So what will we find there?"

 _"Bombs and blood."_

* * *

Approximately five hours later, in the Aztec Drive, Sherlock and John were both very still as they waited inside a rented car parked along one of the houses in the middle of the night. The streets were all empty, each house was all very dark to the point—they were all deceiving. They had been there since the detective figured out the route from Mycroft's tracer when he saw it stop by a hotel. Gritting his teeth, he had a bad hunch why his brother had to be delivered to a hotel and wondered if they should have had the assault there—however upon driving past the Super 8 hotel with numbers of Los Zetas around, he knew an infiltration was not optional, so they had to wait there on the driveway.

An hour wait, and then cars began driving in numbers. Especially the long black car Sherlock saw on the driveway of the hotel. He checked his phone and saw the tracer _in._ Mycroft was on site.

Sherlock nudged John who nodded at him and both muttered in unison.

 _"Vatican Cameos."_

 _The war is afoot._

* * *

 ***ToBeContinued***

 ** _A/N: Awww what else could be happening in Mycroft's head!?_**

 ** _Sherlock's POV to be continued!_**

 _I could not wrap everything here or it will take another 5000 xD_

 _But it will be with an epilogue! The last one!_

 _See you there!_

 **Thanks for reading! ^_^**

 **~W.G~**


	7. The Final Battle

***Brother's Opium War***

 _ **by: WhiteGloves**_

 _The longest chapter to date! Divided into three parts!_

 _Warning for heavy angst and consequences! Let the final battle begin!_

 **Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

 _ **Seven: The Final Battle**_

* * *

 **Prologue:**

Sherlock stared blankly at the white wall opposite him as he sat by the floor with arms hanging limply on his knees. There was nothing in his surrounding except the brick wall, a metal bed across him on the right, and a metal door. Such incarceration was not new to him, Mycroft had always threatened to lock him up if he ever crossed the line; crossed the line he did and that was by pulling the gun on Magnussen's head. He does not regret that he was there; he just hoped there was something to do in his boredom because right not in his mind palace, Mrs. Hudson was there and forever scolding him for a 'bad job' because then _who was going to look after John?_ Yes, she was punishing him enough.

Sherlock was just preparing a reply when he heard footsteps outside his cell and he was pulled back in his reality. He did not blink, he did not give a damn that he recognize the light footsteps of his brother. He did not even glance around when the metal doors opened and closed. Didn't even give the slightest attention that Mycroft came in and stood still on his ground for a few seconds, before crossing his line of sight and sitting on the metal bed after some thought.

And there we find the Holmes brothers together in that confined space. Sherlock continued ignoring him till he heard the older Holmes heave a sigh, his hands awkwardly positioned on his legs in the absence of his umbrella, his grand bearings of his grey three-piece suit was as unparalleled as ever. Mycroft cleared his throat but he never spoke.

Sherlock dropped his head on his chest and sighed as well. "Come to have a good gloat?"

"Gloating suggests that I am successful with my endeavors and with some malignant pleasure at another's misfortune. I am feeling neither Sherlock. In fact— _I don't feel anything._ But I must admit, I am a little troubled, that's all."

"And why would my perfect brother be troubled?" he asked scathingly.

There was a few seconds silence— to which he visualized his brother choosing his words.

"Well, you did just _kill_ a man."

"I am capable."

"You are. But ending another person's life, taking something of value to others or to the man himself, brother, is hardly a justifiable act. Are we really the type of people to _kill_ just because we could? I can't help but feel troubled with your logic at the end of the day. You lost, therefore you _killed._ And you call yourself Sherlock Holmes—?"

Sherlock made a hissing sound and lashed angrily to that calm presence that had no right to be there in that contained space with him when he was a mess— _"And what would you had me do?"_

"You lost." Mycroft said simply, "Therefore surrender."

"And do you know what my surrender would mean to John and Mary?"

Mycroft frowned, "I don't really see how they are going to suffer seeing as they were only mere tools to be used as leverage _to me._ No harm would have been done to them at all, since the real target _was me._ "

The two exchanged silent looks till Sherlock grunted more than answered—

"You know that was never an option."

"Not to you."

"I will not be used as leverage."

"How many times has that happened?"

"Once and the only time _the woman_ nearly won." It was with airplane bombing and the Coventry lot years ago.

Mycroft nodded, "And when she did—did I ever threaten to kill her just because I could?"

Indeed, Sherlock remembered it full well as if it was yesterday, how the government nearly fell to its knees because of his mistake. Mycroft never took it against him; Mycroft actually greeted the defeat with calmness only he could display when others would have violated any truce. But Mycroft was the real justice between them. _He was the eldest. The one who tolerates mistakes. His younger brother's mistakes._

Sherlock felt his face grew hot and gave a terse reply. "This is different."

"It really isn't." the older Holmes said sternly, making Sherlock put his hands on his curls. "Blackmail. Battle of wits. Win and lose. You had the satisfaction of winning right under her nose. So were you satisfied of putting a bullet in his head?"

"I don't regret it."

"Then you should. Because when you go this far brother, even I wouldn't be able to protect you."

" _I don't care."_

"Easy for you to say just because you know you have me." It was said in an exasperated tone, making the consulting detective grin for the first time, with light coming back on his eyes. He caught his brother's eyes who gave him a narrowed look, till Mycroft pressed his lips and let his eyebrows reach his hairline. "I don't doubt this will get repeated, brothermine. As long as I am in position and you are who you are."

"Family is always difficult."

"Agree."

"So what happens now?" the younger Holmes fell back on staring at the opposite wall, draining his emotions out and wait for the inevitable. "Am I going to get hanged?"

"I don't make killings often." Mycroft offered with a small strained smile, "I would not bore you with the tedious meeting but to make it light, you will be sent to Eastern Europe."

"Your initiative?"

"Indeed."

"Slow kill." Sherlock said shortly, eyes falling on his hands. Mycroft's face had gone blank again.

"I need to make you see that murder is not an answer, brothermine." Sherlock refused to answer so his older continued. "But… London will always need you. Expect your contract to be revoked earlier."

"You better not miss me too much then."

Mycroft didn't say anything anymore and silence once again fell with the Holmes brothers. Sherlock could have sworn Mrs. Hudson was preparing him tea just now, which reminded him to remind his brother to keep his flat as it always was. Then he remembered at the last minute that _Wiggins_ had to be taken out of prison as well. His brother was never forgetful of attacks even when the young man was only an accomplice.

It was a long time before one of them spoke; Sherlock would have forgotten he was there had he not spoken again.

"Sherlock." It was with some reverie. "You know I'll always be watching you wherever you are. You know that."

The younger Holmes felt his brother's eyes bore on him but made no attempt to reply.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was full and firm. " _I will always be there."_

* * *

 **Part I WAR**

* * *

"Sherlock?" John called his friend back to this reality and Sherlock opened his eyes to the darkness of his surrounding and the imminent action ahead. The detective focused and closed the memory lane of his mind palace.

Sound of wheels passing on the graveled road and low headlights signaled the arrival of the much-awaited convoy.

"Are you sure the other cartels are here?" John said, sounding doubtful as they saw black cars came one after another and still there were no movements coming from anywhere. Is it possible Sherlock was wrong and that they came here without any alternative plans? They were counting on _war_ as the distraction after all!

Sherlock snorted as if insulted, seemingly reading John's tone.

"They are here." He said dismissively, eyes transfixed at the car that parked on the left, "As ever you see but you do not observe—they arrived before us. The cars you see parked on those houses along the driveway are not from here. See the rusty cars, they all have something in common—stickers of Las Cruces in front, even on their plates. The cars I saw parked on each drive contained other places' stickers—conclusion, they've been rented, just like ours. Plenty of houses with children trikes and bikes yet even at the late hour no child ever came out. Curtain windows are all done and with the slightest sign of movement. Everyone around here seems to know what's happening. Either they've been warned or they've all been taken hostages."

John gasped and tried to raise his eyes to the seemingly empty houses as Sherlock continued—

"Five men have already walked up around our own car, obviously scouting the area and in their jacket all concealed firearms. Do I really need to say more to that?"

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "Do you really think they've all been taken hostages? _Even children?"_

Sherlock's face was grim and his silence was enough to alarm the doctor.

 _"Oh Christ…"_

"This is war." The detective whispered quietly.

" _But they're civilians!"_

"John—"

"We should have had the Secret Service inform the USA government! Or at least made plans to save those people! Jesus, Sherlock you knew what was happening—why didn't you do something!"

"Because it's too late—had I done that it would have made all the syndicate around suspicious." Sherlock was calm, but he was not looking at his friend, "This is the chosen war zone, John, and there's nothing we can do with the casualties without compromising the plan."

"What kind of plan does not involve saving people?" John pointed heatedly that had the detective looking at him straight in the eye, "We came here to save your brother, Sherlock— _and that includes everyone else!"_

The numbers of arriving car finally halted, all of them surrounding the lone house to the left of the drive with metal fence and a large water tank to the side; the house beyond it was dark but it was obviously the target place. The road was eerily silent with only the tall headlights lighting the driveway and when car doors began opening, the shadow of the men were all put in emphasis, growing taller and darker as they all walk around and gather in front of the gate, armed and dangerous.

Sherlock saw the figure of El Pla Za come out of the long car. He knew it was his man because of the scar on his face. The driver went out too, leaving the black car unattended where Mycroft would be, alone and hopefully still capable of sanity. Mycroft was never one to cause him sentiment as much as John but just at that moment, Sherlock knew what he wanted to do much more than anything.

The consulting detective finally turned to his friend with much determination as the doctor displayed.

"Yes, do that—no, listen you go out there, save as many people as you can when all hell break loose in a matter of minute—take all of them to safer place, save as many. But you must do it alone. I can't abandon Mycroft, John. You're right, we _can_ do something for them and that's your job. Then we can meet around the corner or just go as far away, anything will do."

"Sherlock—?"

"No time! Good luck to us both."

Without a word, Sherlock opened his side of the car door and ducked out of sight, leaving John behind and blending in to the night and shadows, heading directly for that long dark car stealthily.

That Mycroft made no appearance could only mean one thing. That they had to stop at a hotel was not consoling either. The red steady tracer pointing at the car was a gleam of warning at the younger Holmes who could only think of one conclusion of his brother's state. _Addiction._

Losing no time, Sherlock reached the car, looked around him for the last lookout that stood idly by, before pulling the door open and looking inside. Mycroft was there, body wise, but definitely not in mind. He was half sitting, half lying on the car seat with his head bowed, his legs in an askew position, his injured hand lay forgotten to his right leg. He was unconscious.

"Mycroft," Sherlock called swiftly as he slid inside and pulled on his older brother's shoulder and check his pulse. No response came whatsoever, except the dropping of his head to another direction. His pulse was irregular, his breathing also uneven and too low. Sherlock could not see anything else in the dark but the next thing he knew— _guns began firing outside._

 _Machine guns._

Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to put Mycroft's weight on him when he heard the car door in front suddenly open sharply and then John Watson slid in looking thoroughly put out and if Sherlock didn't know better—even _excited._ After him, the sound of battle was ongoing with shouts and bullets hitting everything.

"No time to switch cars," John explained urgently, trying to set the ignition for the key was there in the hole, "It's a code red, we're going to use this as the getaway vehicle."

"Your civilians—?"

 _"Can't leave you—"_

" _Drive!"_ Sherlock closed the door on his side and saw John ducked at the same time when stray bullets hit the front shield and the roof. The detective turned to his brother as the car's engine roared into life.

"It's bullet proof." He called to the doctor as John maneuvered the car, the rattling battle around them ongoing, "It's El Pla Za's car, of course it's bullet proof." To Mycroft, he called out more loudly, "Mycroft! _Mycroft! Come on!"_

"You know he won't—" whatever he wanted to say, it was engulfed by another a loud bang of metal hitting metal—a collision—and Sherlock's body was thrust forward with a strong jolt— his body almost falling forward if not for his knees. Mycroft had fallen on the car floor helplessly, his whole body curling at the unknown pain—

"John?" Sherlock called at once, sitting straight and seeing that no real damage happened in front except another car tried to reverse as well and hit their front— outside machine guns were pointed in all direction, with sounds of retaliating heavy fire arms and there were also bombs—

"I'm fine." the doctor was already setting the engine that died at the collision— _"Shit- the car won't start!"_

"Try harder!" Sherlock shouted as he pulled Mycroft on to the chair again, exactly as the engine burst to life, and exactly as the right door of the car opened without warning and El Plaza appeared pointing a gun on Mycroft who was nearer, and then to Sherlock's face.

"So?" the man growled as he slid inside the car, beside the unconscious British man and shut the door close, his gun digging deep on Mycroft's back. "So this is how it's going to be?" he raised his fuming face to John who had stopped dead at the sudden intrusion and barked, " _Drive or I'll put bullets inside their skulls!"_

There was no argument to that as the doctor did as he was told.

Sherlock kept his eyes at El Plaza, seeing his raging eyes and fiery face meant not only Mycroft was in danger; the three of them were. A man who's lost his treasure, who's left behind his men to flee with no gain from his pain and who's shown his enemy his retreat was a man who can do anything. Above all, he was the Los Zetas leader. They'd be all dead the moment the car stopped—that is if Mycroft survived the man's wrath right there in the car. The Mexican had his older brother in a gunpoint—

"What is it this time you?" It was a growl full of contempt, ferocious even. _"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"_

The gun's hammer was pulled back, Sherlock made quick movements but found the gun pointed in his direction instead. He found El Plaza looking at him in the same fury, his scarred face looming the danger that was to come.

"Another move and your dead." Sherlock believed it to be true. El Plaza's menacing eyes was all he needed to see to know how he was ready to pull the trigger and lay waste to anyone against him. His eyes didn't leave the detective as he then yelled at John after securing some distance from the battlefield—

"Stop the fucking car!"

John and Sherlock exchange glances from the rear-view mirror and instantly knew they had to do something before they're both killed. The car had long left the Aztec Drive with its much-engaged gangs, the sounds of battle ongoing. John made the turn and drove the car to an empty field with nothing save the counted trees and their shadows from the single lamp across. Things were not going as expected.

John came out of the car first, then Sherlock. They couldn't do anything for El Plaza's hand was holding his hostage clear, his gun pointed on the half-conscious man he had dragged out of the car. He carried Mycroft singlehandedly with his brute strength, holding on the British man under the right arm and dragging him into the light of the car where the two strangers were already standing, facing him.

"Throw me your guns, I know you're armed." El Plaza ordered in a deadly tone, warning them for any untoward movements. John glanced at Sherlock and saw the detective take his gun out and throw it near the Mexican's feet. The doctor grudgingly did the same and now both were weaponless. "You must be the English Secret Service." El Plaza continued calmly this time but the way his eyes danced like wild fire was enough to put Sherlock on his most alert. "I should've known. Should have known… I've had it with you English people."

He pulled the trigger, its blast echoing in the air, leaving Sherlock staring as slowly John Watson fell on his back, clutching his middle with the most excruciating expression.

 _"JOHN!"_

Sherlock crouched near him, then turned sharply to the Mexican whose gun was now pointing in his direction.

"I don't need to know who you are," the man was saying, taking a step forward and waving the gun to and from, "All I want is for all of you to die the most painful death. I will kill all of you… starting with you." He waved his gun back to Mycroft and was almost about to pull the trigger—when Sherlock shouted at him—

 _"It's all too late_ —it's already irreversible. Mycroft's already won, there's nothing you could do about it. _He's won!"_

"You think so?" El Plaza smirked. "Not after I'm done with him. I thought of giving him a slow death but he's gone too far." With convulsive eyes, the Mexican was ready and Sherlock knew it was his brother's time—

 _"I'm the one who pulled out the ambush_." The younger Holmes shouted fiercely, "I sent your enemies this location—and the treasure! Of course I know it. Even if you kill us here—whoever goes first— the fact that you've already lost your main objective remains! _You've lost your precious opium!"_

That got El Plaza's deadly eyes staring at him, then with violent movements, he dropped the helpless Mycroft and charged at Sherlock roaring angrily, with guns all out and pulling the trigger in his direction—

Four gunshots rang in the air, one which grazed Sherlock's shoulder before he could duck down. Then all went silent like a radio was turned off. Everything became very still. Sherlock raised his head, unmindful of the superficial wound he received and looked up with some difficulty. The consulting detective was surprised to see El Plaza, standing there, his face showing mild surprise and horror— his body projected in an awkward manner as if something behind him was keeping him from straightening—

Sherlock then realized why as he saw three bullet holes covering his chest, blood splattering around. El Plaza was shot.

And then the man dropped dead on the floor, coughing excessively till he was no more.

Sherlock hurried to raise himself from the ground to see what had happened and then saw, pass the dead body, was Mycroft Holmes whose eyes were wide open and with a gun on his left hand. The look on his face was something Sherlock would never forget: white as a chalk in his shock and utter confusion. Seconds passed and the older Holmes did not let go of the gun, especially when his eyes transfixed on the body on the floor.

Before things could get out of hand, the younger Holmes automatically stepped towards his brother with hands raised just in case he wasn't recognized.

"Mycroft." He called firmly, eyes on the weapon. "Give me the gun."

Mycroft's hand shook and he dropped the gun on the floor and then looked up to Sherlock who held his gaze strongly. The glaze on Mycroft's eyes were intense and too bright. His mental faculties must be in haywire and Sherlock could only imagine how his older brother must see him as a walking anatomy model. But he didn't like the uncontrollable tremor already forming on his left hand so with a last step, he stopped in front of his eldest and reached a steady hand on his left arm, just above the elbow.

"It's alright," he said gently, "You're going to be fine."

Mycroft found his eyes again and Sherlock was surprised and relieved at the same time of how quickly the sharp cutting gaze his brother usually possessed found its place back on his orbs in matter of seconds as he gave a weary reply that was much _Mycroft—_

 _"I wish."_

Sherlock was struck at how melancholic he sounded and though Mycroft was known for being such a cynic, the tone in his voice alarmed Sherlock that he stared at him for a length of time. Their exchange was deep, both gaze sharing a mutual understanding that they both knew what lies ahead.

John suddenly gasped behind him, making Sherlock look back towards his friend who coughed several times as he tried to sit up and ripping his buttoned upper clothes open to reveal a thick layered vest.

"You okay?" the detective asked, running his eyes on the doctor's bullet proof vest and seeing the bullet caught there. From somewhere a far, they began hearing loud sirens coming.

"What do you think?" John push himself up and then found El Plaza's dead body on the floor. The doctor was silent for a while, before looking up at the Holmes brothers. "You both okay?"

Nobody had a ready answer for him.

* * *

 _(A suggestion to take a break?)_

 **PART II- THE REAL BATTLE**

* * *

The news spread fast of the clash of the rebel cartels in New Mexico that reached international TV. A façade it seemed, was made to make everyone believed that it was an ambush of the Sinaloa, the Family, and Gulf cartels against the dwindling grip of power of the Los Zetas in South America. Speculations of the events that took place included the involvement of a large sum of drugs, politics, betrayal of members in the group and even kidnapping the heir of El Pla Za that resulted in his death. Whatever the news concluded, not even a whisper of the British nation, let alone its main players involved, were mentioned.

Such was the absolute power of the British Government Head. _Not that he was ever aware of it anymore._

He was one of the two persons John Watson didn't see for a good measure of two days right after their rescue and return in the hands of the British Secret Service. True to his words, the man calling himself _Harry_ proceeded in lending them a hand once they were able to reach the British embassy in New Mexico where a jet with the flag of Britain was already waiting for them. Mycroft was sedated on the way after the first attack of the drug's compulsion. John was the first doctor to examine Mycroft before anything else and his own opinion was severe.

"Ten… possibly twelve times," he said after checking Mycroft's left arm and found marks of the needle's injection already in double digits. "A dozen times in thirty-two hours—they were trying to kill him." He looked up at his best friend who had joined him to where Mycroft lay unconscious.

"No." Sherlock took his brother's arm to examine it close, "It was a calculated dosage, enough to drive one to addiction. If they wanted to kill him they could have used their guns anytime. No, they wanted him to get overpowered by the drug, that way it would be easier for him to follow their biddings. Make him act like a dog waiting for a reward." He then traced his fingers on his brother's left arm. "Mycroft never applied this on his own. Someone else was always there to make sure he took it so even if he did not intend to use it, he had no choice."

"How could you tell?" John must've sounded stupid for asking that, nonetheless, Sherlock was in no mood to be sarcastic as he pointed at his brother's injured right hand.

"He wouldn't be able to use that hand to help himself even if he wanted to."

John pursed his lips. "He couldn't be turned into an addict in just a matter of thirty-two hours, could he?"

"Fentanyl has that effect." Sherlock answered quietly as he sat straight and leaned his back on the chair. "But it's not something that cannot be withdrawn. The process will be painstaking and agonizing."

"At least he's alive."

Sherlock smirked, then his eyes fell on his brother.

" _At least._ We'll see."

John couldn't be sure of his friend's tone for it was like the detective to be vague and act indifferent when his poker face could be easily read by his best friend. John just knew how worried Sherlock is but much to his chagrin, it amused John to some degree to find the brothers in reverse roles as he remembered in a jet plane much the same as this one Mycroft begging him to look after his younger brother; Sherlock probably was also having quite a turn having been the one in constant need of his brother's attention. Now seeing himself as the one in position to take over, the doctor couldn't help wondering if he'd be able to pull it, or pull another Sherlock move where he tasks other people to _look after_ his older brother.

"I could look after him." John suggested once they reached the ever-cold ground of London's airport in the middle of the night where they were greeted by an ambulance and a thick coated secretary previously named _Anthea_ waiting on the side. Mycroft was immediately put on a stretcher and rushed to the ambulance and it was during this time when he ex-army doctor took his cue. "I could help you."

Sherlock rounded on him and shook his head.

"I don't think that's the best idea." He said looking hesitant, even uncertain. "Mycroft's got special medical team for this kind of emergencies—"

"Usually your kind of emergencies—?" John said in understanding.

" _Me_ kind of emergencies." Sherlock nodded, putting both hands inside his coat pocket and pressing his lips together. The two awkwardly stood there in the middle of the airport lights and Secret Service men in suit. Till John shrugged with a frown.

"I'll go home then?"

"To Rosy, yes."

"Why are you acting weird?"

It was Sherlock's turn to frown at him. "We just came out of a battlefield and my brother's drugged, of course I'd act weird." He paused, gave some consideration and added, "How weird?"

John chuckled. "Mycroft's going to be okay, if they can fix you so can they can help him. We're in London, stop getting fidgety, you're Sherlock Holmes." The doctor sighed after a while and turned a look towards the ambulance, "This is Mycroft's first time with an actual drug? That really is going to be painful."

"I can already imagine." Came Sherlock's grim voice.

And that was the last John saw of the Holmes brothers in the next two days that followed.

What he found next, was nothing short of horror.

When Sherlock didn't return for forty-eight hours, John took it up to himself to hail a cab and instruct it to head to Pall Mall where he knew the only place his friend would be—in Mycroft's house. He knew of Mycroft's condition, knew that Sherlock must've been preoccupied of subduing a relentless Mycroft Holmes in need of his _fix._ John felt sorry for Mycroft for this was something the older Holmes probably loathed the most— out of his own control and _too actively in pain_. John knew how destructive prohibited drugs could be, he's seen many people fall prey to it and never came back. But this was Mycroft, John hoped he would be okay. Mycroft was the smartest person he's ever known, and he hoped his genius would kick in on moments like this.

How very _right_ he was, in a sense, because Mycroft remained the genius that he was, but not the genius he expected.

When he arrived at Pall Mall, John was surprised to find Mycroft's house nearly empty with only two guards at the main door and one at the hallway. There was scarcely any nurse, or housemaid for that matter. He was led inside the house by a quiet male secretary he's never seen before, and was directed at the library where he had to wait for a bloody _Mr. Holmes_ to see him.

What the hell was that about?

A weary and ragged Sherlock came in after a few minutes in his buttoned white shirt and dark pants and John didn't need to do any deduction to know what was the matter.

"Is it bad?" he asked when they caught each other's eyes. Sherlock moved swiftly pass him without answering.

"It's beyond anything we can imagine." He said finally as he sat on one of the chairs across the doctor and put his face on his hands. John immediately sat near him with a very concerned expression on his features.

"Meaning what? What happened?"

Sherlock emerge from his hands and clasped them together, John easily noticed the dark linings under his eyes, nevertheless, the same eyes retained those usual inquisitive sparkle. "It's quite unique, _terribly unique._ My brother has become an _enigma._ Whereas you expected him to run amok, he retained a usual demeanor of calm—but it's not as simple. He refused everything. He refused _doctors,_ he refused everyone and he's never even mentioned the drug. Tell me there are addicts like there with the same response?"

He looked at his friend who shook his head in confusion.

"I didn't think so. I think that's how he's trying to cope up with the addiction in his own way." He glanced at the doctor again whose mouth was hanging open. "On the first day of our return he was already suffering the withdrawal but he was ever quiet. Unlike what was expected, _he didn't do anything._ Just suffered in silence, a ridiculous action even for himself."

John blinked and somehow could just imagine Mycroft's innate stubbornness. _How extraordinary…_

"It was truly embarrassing." Sherlock admitted.

"Embarrassing?"

"It made me embarrass." Sherlock pointed out with furrowed brows. "But I myself can control my actions even under the influence—but to totally refuse to ask for the drug? I'm telling you—my brother has topped me with everything. He asked for sedative to calm himself, even said his brain would do the rest and just lay on the bed, in silence and let his body twist, turn and shiver. I've got the whole household get warmed up, even stacked him under a pile of bedsheet till he's comfortable. He was already feverish and delirious during the night and kept asking questions about mundane things."

"Mundane things like?"

"Unimportant— why nobody's mentioned Big Ben's late hand for 0.08 seconds, or if anyone's actually paying attention to our banknotes that has decreased in size since a year ago. Or the change of human's understanding of New Physics. Or why the Tories would bother when the Labour party will win in the next general election on 2030."

"He's making prediction now."

"Always accurate."

"He's really doing a good job if you ask me."

But a dark gloom shaded Sherlock's expression next. John was used to seeing the consulting detective fall in this kind of reverie, there were times that Sherlock would fall silent and be this way and John wouldn't have paid him any heed because that was Sherlock. He could bloody be thinking of stuffing a whole human's body in the fridge and find it would be with some difficulty. For such an expression to appear now worried the doctor.

"Sherlock?"

"He's gotten over the fever now. After two whole days." The consulting detective said with a pause, but there was really something in his eyes that couldn't quite express his meaning. "He's… not better, he barely had nourishments since the incident… but he's functioning."

"What did his doctor say?"

"Weren't you listening? He sent them all away, even the most trusted—"

"What?" John demanded, "You mean you've been taking care of him for days? _Just you?_ "

"It's Mycroft. He doesn't make it easy for normal people—"

"Normal people or not everyone's got the same physiology _,_ Jesus." John hastened to stand up. "Where is he?"

"I don't think that's a good idea." Sherlock said with such a regarding look at the doctor who eyed him back, "Listen… Mycroft is not the same. I told you he's become an enigma. When a person is overdosed with drugs, their senses get heightened, their emotions are erratic. My brother's display is different: it heightened every single cell of his mental faculties and that's all. That's what he's ever is. Imagine a heartless genius. A literal heartless genius, John. It makes the old Mycroft appear sweet. Didn't you notice the lack of nurses? Because Mycroft _hates them all and made it known._ He's grown to hate everyone's sight without prejudice. That's what he's become."

John shook his head. "I still don't understand. Where is he?"

Sherlock was watching him. "You're really very bad at listening.

"I heard you say I have a grumpy patient."

The consulting detective gave his friend a long look, followed by a slight smile that seemed new to his pale face. Then he stood up, leaving John to sigh quietly and be glad he was there at moments like this when Sherlock and Mycroft were both _idiots._

Minutes later, they were both outside the older Holmes' room where Sherlock stopped, somewhat hesitant as he put a hand on the knob.

"It's not going to be easy." The younger Holmes said quietly with an eye to his friend. "Try not to let him get the best of you. And try not to punch him."

"Like I haven't got enough practice with you."

"Still… don't come too near."

"What? He's my bloody patient—"

The door was opened and John was met with a half-darkened room with all the curtains drawn, the fireside blazing at the heart of it all, and then the shadow of the bed where he could just outline a man's figure in a sitting position. John's eyes adjusted to the room as they entered and couldn't help gasping at how thin Mycroft had become. He felt Sherlock stood rigidly by the door and heard him close it.

"Mycroft," he said after a long pause, "You've got a visitor."

Mycroft gave no sign of noticing their presence. His appeared like a statue, immovable and firm. His head was towards the fireplace, his gauntness shown by its light. He looked at peace yet forbidding at the same time and John couldn't make anything out of him, but the way Sherlock regarded him made the doctor decide to tread lightly.

It was like entering a lion's den there and then.

"Hello, Mycroft." He began conversationally, walking in and trying to catch a glimpse of the man's face. "How are you feeling?"

"What is this?" came Mycroft's severe reply. "You really think a cripple's visit would make any difference?"

John blinked, surprised, as he stood his ground while Sherlock slowly walked near the bed. The older Holmes' voice was hoarse but very strong. He was steady and firm too despite the sudden decrease on his measure; the darkness surrounding his bed wasn't helping, not when his shadow casted by the fire looked truly ominous.

"He's here to check on you." Sherlock explained quietly. "He—"

Then came the storm—

 _"Can you never once in your life follow an order, you stupid man_?" his tone was so harsh and full of vile acidity that got the doctor staring from one Holmes to the other. John was used with Mycroft's snappish way when there were only the three of them added with his overbearing formality but he's never seen him act this strange. John saw the older Holmes' bony left hand clutch on his bedsheet with rage, his expression threatening, " _I don't need attention._ _Get your filth out this room."_

John was thoroughly taken aback for a moment while Sherlock, having been with his brother for some time now, looked unaffected when such words would usually make the old Sherlock stomping out of the room.

"He can help you." The younger Holmes offered quietly.

"With what?"

"With your health. You must've realized you're deteriorating."

Mycroft fell silent only for a moment. Then John felt more than see, his eyes bore on him.

"But there's nothing in there, is it?" he began skeptically, his anger forgotten. "Just the mere sight of him… too shabby, _too insignificant._ He doesn't even begin to make of an object of interest. To be in the same house of a brainless cripple I'd rather curse myself to death. Get him out, the ordinary does not need to make their presence known." he turned his head to his brother again with asperity, "Who the hell is he to be in the same room as me?"

"He's John." Sherlock caught John's eyes and shook his head. "He's a doctor. And a friend."

"But that's your substandard isn't it? You've always wanted to be superior. But I must impose that no dim creatures be admitted in my damn room without my permission." Mycroft turned his gaze to John who saw his eyes—they were glinting darkly, wide, seeing and unblinking, _unrecognizable_. Like a blackhole sucking him to its oblivion—

John was not a cowardly man but before he knew it, he took a step back.

"Wise." Came Mycroft's cold tone, the glaze in his eyes not disappearing, "You come to help but you are no better than the others who came and tried. I don't seek medical attention, not from one who's delayed paying his bills because his pension could not afford it, what more with a child at hand and a single parent at that; a loser such as you—" he spat on the ground. "I shall die before I let you contaminate me with your filth!"

John clenched his jaw, his features changing abruptly but he stood his ground. _This was not Mycroft speaking—_

"Mycroft." Sherlock said through gritted teeth, but he was ignored as the older Holmes continued addressing his friend in such a manner no one has seen before.

"Come now, you don't need to hold back." It was a sneer only Mycroft was capable of, "The violent sort. The impatient, _bored,_ dissatisfied fellow who couldn't even live a day without life on the line. Haven't you realized that's the very trait that got your life in this mess—? Humans who never cease to hope for the better even when they had no means to achieve it. _"_

"Everyone is like that." Sherlock gave John a meaningful look.

"Stop deluding yourselves, humans are meant to be in constant flux yet, with your excuses and incapability, you found comfort in the norm that everyone is imperfect. Savage fools, the air you breathe shouldn't have been free—"

"Mycroft, enough." Sherlock sighed coaxingly as he finally reached the side of the bed where his older brother surveyed him with severity. John saw that Sherlock noticed the intermittent shaking of his brother's left hand and busied himself on the drawer next to him. "Just let him examine you. You have not seen a doctor since the first day when you told Dr. Smith he will have a heart attack in three days' time because of overwork."

"Yes, should have let him die." His eyes found John again and it glinted malevolently. "A creature of habit—38 years of age, an active medical man who takes breakfast at 10 am with black coffee he usually never finishes, sleeps no lesser than four hours—"

"Mycroft—"

"Oh, even your death is boring, doctor—old age."

"Calm down." For his shoulders were shuddering.

"And then there's _you._ The brother I _never_ needed." Mycroft continued in complete vexation as John threw his friend a wary look. "Pray tell how much would it cost you to cover your expenses to be free from your influence? Because in all honesty you've been nothing but a burden to me, boy, ever since I laid eyes on you. Why I even bothered to concern myself with your defects, I couldn't even begin to understand. But since your only purpose of approaching me daily is to cover up for your misbehavior, I'd gladly bargain you a price. How much do you want?"

"I don't need your money."

"Of course you do. When you refuse to get boring cases to whom do you come to? It's always been me." Sherlock pressed his lips as Mycroft's glazed eyes remained blank. "Any amount? Just to save me the trouble of your incompetence I abhor."

John admired Sherlock's ability to endure for this was no easy fit. It was truly exhausting to be around a patient with such convulsive energy; be it verbal or not. With respect, John imitated his manner for there was a patient and a brother in desperate need of their help even when he was so cross about it. Somehow, John always knew Mycroft would be a very difficult patient in the future. Both the Holmes brothers actually.

"Just rest, Mycroft, and let him see you. You'll be better soon." The younger brother goaded.

 _"An amount, Sherlock!"_

"It's nothing you can afford!" Sherlock's own eyes was glinting sharply now as the brothers were face to face. Mycroft was unaware of his brother's dilemma and went on in the same manner, his whole body shaking now— panic, like he was truly troubled— _he was._

"Then since there's no exchange, how do I make you disappear? I hate the very sight of you, it reminds me of things in the past too unpleasant to recall—you and that malfunctioning sister. Everything a failure. It's not your characters that made you the way you are, it's the defect in your abilities. How you both held me back. Such a pity and troublesome— I will forever curse the day you both became my siblings. Till I die."

John saw Mycroft in another light— a crueler one. Mycroft was not one you would consider _kind or considerate,_ but he's always been _just_ and if he does commit error, he makes amends. This person in front of him was not Mycroft Holmes. It was a new person altogether with the same brain—

"Incompetent. Childish. It's always you whose causing me grief. _Always you!"_ came the panic-stricken tone—

"Yes, it's always me." sighed the detective with controlled patience, putting gentle hands on his either side of his brother's shoulder and prod him to lay down the bed, "I won't do it again… just lay down and rest…"

Sherlock took something from the bedside table just as Mycroft followed his bidding and jabbed an injection on his arm. He continued muttering offensive remarks at his sibling, often his regrets. Till his voice died down as the effect of the medicine was instantaneous that John was able to come closer in time to see the older Holmes' eyes flutter and then close peacefully.

"Sedative?" he asked when he saw Sherlock put down the injection and see him nod. The doctor motioned for him to step away from the bed since the real doctor was in.

"How long has he been like this?" he checked Mycroft's pulse and pointed that he needed real lights. Sherlock turned it on for him and the dark veil covering the room was lifted. The room as very warm.

"Since this morning. He's been very abusive ever since he woke up. It must be his way of coping up with the withdrawal. He's using this rhetoric. He was much worse in the morning."

"Well, he is low blood." John took the stethoscope given to him by the detective and checked the man's chest. "He's barely got the energy to breathe, where'd he gotten all his energy speaking like that? You could have called a doctor when he's like this."

"I can't always sedate him." Sherlock murmured, falling on the comfortable chair beside the bed and putting his hand on his face again. "He can't rely on sedative. The only time I did use one heavy dose was when he threatened to throw himself off the window."

John's lips thinned as he buttoned Mycroft's sleeping dress and stared at his friend.

"It would help a lot if at least one of you is getting nourishment, you know."

"I'm fine."

"You're really not." John sighed and stepped in front of his friend. "You're not believing anything he's said, right? Whatever it was about not needing you… you know its' not him speaking right?"

"How is he?"

John gave way, "Undernourished. Still slightly feverish and he will remain like that if he doesn't get a proper meal. We need to get him some food. You know what comes after this, Sherlock. It's dangerous if his body cannot keep up."

What comes next, the doctor thought silently as he watched the detective. At this moment the drug was being torn from his body, what comes next will be the turning point on the road to recovery. But men were known to die from it. John didn't have to mention that. Sherlock obviously knew. With a tap on his shoulder, John prodded the detective to get some food while his brother was still sleeping and he will remain to watch over him. The detective obliged quietly and stood up, his head bow, his shoulders low, making him appear like a dejected creature. John heaved a sigh and pulled his eyes back to his patient.

How old was Mycroft? It seemed important now for the battle coming next. Does he have any medical history of heart disease? John slumped on the empty chair Sherlock just abandoned and pondered on these thoughts.

He would advise an ambulance. Yes, he should. He would make sure Mycroft had an IV drop just in case. It would have been dangerous too put it any later than this. John was glad he came.

Another night of spasms and twisting came, but this time John made sure Sherlock was not alone.

* * *

On the third day following the fever and open-hate delirium, Mycroft Holmes woke up, seemingly calm and with a normal temperature. Sherlock and John were both there when he did, and eyed the two with some mellow sleepiness.

"Sherlock?" was his first word in a feeble voice John hardly recognized as he too stood up. The younger Holmes approached the side of his bed. "Is it you, brothermine?"

"Mycroft." Was the gentle reply. "Yes, of course its me."

Mycroft blinked, his eyelids almost closing again while the doctor checked his pulse and temperature, curt his eyebrows before nodding at his best friend who drew a chair next to the bed.

"John says you're going to get better now."

Mycroft slightly opened his eyes and fixed it at his brother. "Oh?"

Sherlock eyed John, then to his brother he added, "Do you want to eat anything?"

Mycroft stared at him vacantly, and nodded all his energy obviously drained. When a tray of food was set in front of him however, he didn't even notice it. He fell asleep soon after, and did not wake up till later in the evening where he requested for water but ignored when given. Sherlock willingly took the glass of water and set it on the bedside table while his brother quietly sat there, not saying anything.

Sherlock called to him once, twice. No response came.

The fourth and fifth day were as uneventful with Mycroft indifferent to his surroundings and his meal that they decided to keep the IV fluid running, something which the older Holmes also seemed to fail to notice. His lack of enthusiasm was nothing new, but his complete obliviousness to everything was alarming. That afternoon, Sherlock pulled John near the fireside for a talk regarding this development.

"I don't like it." John admitted while Sherlock hang on his every word, "His pulse is very weak, but steady. He's obviously thrown off the drugs, but when lethargy is the problem—"

"Mycroft is lethargy— how is that a problem?"

"It's about the patience' spirit," John explained, finding it new to be the one Sherlock was consulting, "Some, after extreme undergoing to recovery are rob of the will to live and that's dangerous, Sherlock. But give him time… this ordeal was new to him. Let's just make sure he doesn't end up like—"

" _Eurus_." Sherlock breathed, remembering his unresponsive younger sister and pressed his eyes closed. John patted him on the back as a show of solidarity. The detective looked at him.

"I was going to say," the doctor said, "if Mycroft was ever interested in anything in this world, something that can pull him back to his senses, it's going to be you. Do you want to rehearse the clown again?"

Sherlock chuckled and gave his doctor a slight pat in the back.

Two weeks passed and Mycroft remained the listless patient that he is. Several doctors had come in for second opinion and they all had the same conclusion as John's: Mycroft was waned of his spirit to which only time could recuperate him. There were plenty of advises as to send him to an asylum for recovering patients, but Sherlock decided otherwise. Mycroft would never forgive him.

So there they stayed for weeks.

A night came when Sherlock woke up with John gone after deciding to stay a night with Rosamund that he found Mycroft's bed empty. Sherlock scanned the room, observed the bedsheet pulled side and the slippers gone, and immediately bolted up from the chair and out the door in great haste to search for his brother.

* * *

 _(Rest your eyes, listen to music, eat chips!)_

 **Part III End of war**

* * *

It was the violin that awoke him in the middle of his sleep. A sweet, melancholic sound of string that touches him to the core; something he has heard from somewhere a far. Something vividly strong and familiar. A kid with fluffy curly hair.

 _Oh yes,_ _Sherlock._

He found himself watching that little fat boy that he is and that toddler, barely four years old running around cairns he put together around the lake. Him and his brother. It amused him how the little boy's laughter was contaminating.

He heard the door behind him opened, followed by a sigh of relief. Mycroft slowly closed his right hand and found it working despite some pain. That was the most important part. _Pain._

"You're awake." Sherlock greeted him.

"I heard you." Mycroft croaked, as Sherlock closed the door behind him. " _Your awful violin._ I would always hear it." He paused. "Two weeks? Judging from the state of my wound, it's been that long." He raised his eyes to his screen. "How did we do?"

"You won." Sherlock said simply. "They were all taken…"

"Dozens died."

"All justified members of the gangs. No civilian casualties. You had them moved out before hand." Sherlock eyed his brother quietly. "Your influence sometimes still astounds me."

"You should never underestimate my heightened mental powers." Mycroft chuckled lightly. "As I didn't yours. Sherlock… my brother, I wouldn't have left you those clues if for a single moment I thought you couldn't handle the danger."

"I know." Sherlock approached his chair and stood behind him, his voice solemn. _"I know."_

Mycroft continued in a tone that suggested it was of utmost importance to be explained— "I never wanted to put you in any peril— no matter how you may think I enjoy it. I—many times in my mind I would convince you not to follow, but the you in my head would always have the same stubborn answer— my cynic mind would tell me it's a must to do—" Mycroft's voice cracked uncharacteristically, making Sherlock press his lips and reach a hand—stopped in midair—and then placed a hand on his brother's left shoulder quietly, to assure him he was never blamed. Mycroft was still in a vulnerable state. It was important that he was heard out before he secluded himself again.

"It's not your fault. It's what we do."

A brief silence fell.

"I… killed El Plaza… I suppose."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

Mycroft nodded too. "I'm glad I did." There was so much emotion in those words. "I wouldn't have forgiven myself if you did. I already used you enough."

"You didn't." Sherlock was now looking at the back of his brother's head. "It was all on my own accord. I would have shot him for your sake." It was important that Mycroft understands.

"Oh…" his voice faltered.

"Where is the treasure then?" Sherlock cleared his throat, just to change the subject.

"I already told you." Mycroft muttered quietly, now distracted. "I already sent you there to retrieve it, didn't I? In Newport, Cardiff? It was the nearest port for the cargo to be sent from Atlantic. The treasure was relocated there an hour after it was taken by my agents. I thought you would have— _are you laughing_?"

Because Sherlock Holmes was, and staggering at that. To think his brother really had thought of everything right after their rescue from the Park Plaza Hotel _and in the middle of crisis because of his drug dosage!_ How the older Holmes managed to do that in a short time— _fifteen minutes was all he needed!_ And what happens in fifteen minutes? Treasures relocated, civilians evacuated and deadly gangsters entrapped so it seems. And all because _Mycroft._

So Sherlock laughed till his stomach ached while his brother remained sitting still and left him at his outbursts.

With teary eyes, Sherlock controlled his snigger and heaved a final sigh. It was good to laugh after a long time. It was so good. Mycroft had turned off the screen and turned his side table lamp on, shedding light into the multimedia room. The detective looked around as he got a hold of himself, and waited for his brother to speak.

He didn't. Sherlock saw him staring vacantly into space again.

"You should get back to bed." He suggested.

There was a silent sigh. "You don't get to patronize me, Sherlock."

"I already did. For two weeks." The younger Holmes pressed his lips closed but his silence was enough to make his brother give him an uncertain side glance.

"I seem to recall…" he started again, with the first expression of frown appearing on his face, "saying… a lot of things to you… and John. I can't… I wish I could tell you I don't remember them but I do. I…"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's alright."

"Apology should be in order… Sherlock I'm—"

"For godsake, go rest." The detective cut him short, suddenly finding energy to finally round the chair to face his brother and saw how pale his face was still looking, "You're apologizing, clearly you're still not right in the head." He looked him in the eye, took his left hand, checked his pulse and nodded. "Yep, to bed with you."

Mycroft pulled his hand back slowly and stared at his brother with a weary smile.

"Well, at least… thank you for taking care of me."

Sherlock's eyes flashed—and in those seconds he remembered everything Mycroft had done for him from the moment he realized there was a strong presence protecting him as a child, a character shielding him from everything, teaching him as a mentor, an absolute guide and guardian who was ever a huge part of his childhood, never leaving even in his most difficult trials; always there to a point that he learned not to fear _anything;_ someone he truly trusted so naturally, someone his very instincts would recall in times of danger, the only person he ever whole heartedly relied on— _his older brother—_

"You don't get to say that." Sherlock said somberly, his hands closing tight, "You of all people… don't get to thank me. I should be… Mycroft, for godsake, we're brothers. That's all you needed to remember."

He thought he saw his brother's eyes moisten but it disappeared the moment he blinked.

He wished Mycroft would remember that as he helped his brother up and lead him back to his bed in silence. But then again, as Sherlock sat slowly down the comfortable chair he had been sleeping on, a sudden thought occurred to him. Mycroft never really forgets anything. His memory was glued the moment his mind was set to an event, be it under drug dosages or life and death situations. His memory was something he trusted. He was sure they would talk about this someday, but given his older brother's annoying character when he was well, it would surely take a long time to be discussed. _They never did._

The next morning, Mycroft Holmes was unable to function again. His lapses on response and inability to recognize his surrounding hampered his being that three days later, Sherlock was forced to agree to send him to the hospital. There he found from a number of tests and brain scans that _Fentanyl_ was much more destructive than they thought and its withdrawal doesn't necessarily mean the patient's recovery. The drug was a hundred times more powerful than any other drug as it affects the nervous system the most. It could heighten the senses as much as it could damage. What would be left of its user after consecutive dosage for three days?

"Paralysis. _Death."_ Confirmed one doctor.

Mycroft was given the drugs for almost 32 hours. He never came back after that night that would be considered the brother's last active conversation. Sherlock had to inform his parents of this sad development after some persuading from John who told him his parents ought to know no matter how much it breaks them. Because if he didn't, would Sherlock be able to handle the matter by himself?

"My brother did with Eurus."

"You're not your brother." Was all John had to say.

Sherlock stayed in his brother's multimedia room for a whole day after Mycroft was taken to the asylum. He received a lot of calls of inquiry, especially from high officials of the government but he ignored them all. There were plenty of cases ringing on his doorstep in 221B but he's thrown them aside. He needed silence, he needed his mind palace.

 _What would Mycroft do?_

 _"It's all up to me, isn't it?"_ said the Mycroft in his head. _"I won the battle but lost the war. Stop pestering me and get on with your life."_

So much like Mycroft. Sherlock pressed his hands on his temple with a loud sigh. _How did things end up this way?_

"Sherlock?" came John's voice from the doorway. The detective didn't have to look up. "Sherlock, we have to go, they're waiting."

There was no response. John Watson paused by the doorway and lingered there, watching his best friend with his head bowed and hands on his face. The doctor wanted to say a lot of things but didn't. It was not what Sherlock needed, not when he never looked so alone yet not wanting company at the same time.

"I'll… wait for you outside." The door closed.

And Sherlock raised his head, his eyes glinting darkly. He knew the thought that crossed John's head just now— _alone._

 _Alone protects me._ That was what Sherlock remembered saying but there was never a truth in that. _He was never alone back then._ Except now when he felt much more than see _how truly alone he was._

 _But never protected._

And it confused him.

 _"Well now,"_ came Mycroft's voice again, _"You have to do something about that. Don't make me come out there and scold you, brothermine."_

By all means. Sherlock countered and couldn't help beating himself at his lost as he shielded his eyes with his palm.

If only things ended differently… _if only…_ but as hard as it was to admit, Sherlock and Mycroft both lost the battle like many soldiers do when it was uncontrollable. Terrible sacrifices amidst victory that takes the greatest of men, in this case Sherlock's _confidant and shelter_ ; the one and only irreplaceable person who can ever be entitled, despite his faults, to be called _'older brother'._ The man who sacrificed many things and received so little.

Sherlock tried to elude the facts but John's voice wouldn't let him.

 _It is what it is._

* * *

-The End-

* * *

 ** _A/N: ;( We win as much as we lose._**

 ** _Thanks to everyone whose reached this final chapter!_**

It is what it is.

But we must remain hopeful for the future!

Thank you for the unending support to all my titled fanfics from the very beginning (which I own nothing!)

This may very well be one of the last (unless season 5!)

So I'll leave this here, to the fandom and readers :)

Once again, thank you so much!

 **Thanks for reading! ^_^**

 **~W.G~**

 _and now..._

* * *

 _Epilogue_

* * *

Sherlock's eyes opened wide as he remembered Mycroft's words during the night of their last conversation.

 _"Your awful violin. I would always hear it."_

A moment passed, then the detective rushed out of the room, into Mycroft's bedroom where he had left his violin after playing it for him nights ago— he found it there, just as he left it. He never felt his hand shake that much when he took it. And he came out of the house with more determination that he had ever felt.

 _Time to awaken the sleeping dragon he never meant to leave alone because that's what pirates do—chase after and hold on to their treasures._ And this time, he will hold on tight.

Years later as Sherlock remembered this event, he assured everyone that his violin never failed him as it proved, Mycroft _still_ calls it _awful._

* * *

 ***Thank you :)**


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